Literally
by She Who Shines
Summary: When the Unseen University becomes... well, unseen, it's up to Susan Sto-Helit to save the day. The problem is, the only person who can help her is Teatime's ghost's intended victim. Susan/Teatime; Kplus because of Teatime and possible romance later on
1. Unseen

**Author's Notes:**** Okay, this is my first try at a fanfiction so go easy on me, please. This first chapter is going to be short, but at least the second will be a little longer and the story should pick up pace and become more interesting in that one as well (mainly because Death finally shows up and Teatime plays a larger role, though the plot thickening contributes also). This story is based around the three coolest characters in **_**Hogfather**_**—Teatime, Susan, and Death, though Death probably won't show up as much I would want him to. Later this will probably be a Teatime/Susan fic, but I'm trying to make it make **_**sense,**_** so it will happen slowly. So now all you have to do is read, enjoy, and REVIEW, because if I know people are reading this I'll update twice as quickly! **

**Disclaimer: **This story is based off the wonderful characters created by Terry Pratchett--thank you for making such a wonderful world, and I hope that you don't mind that I chose to play around in it.

Chapter One

Unseen

Several things went through Teatime's mind as the white-haired girl swerved towards him. First, the sword he had taken from her was no normal weapon. He could feel the air cutting as the blade passed through it, hear the unearthly _humming _emanating from it, see the unnatural glint where there should be shadows, the skeletons shaped into the hilt… this was a blade of death. Secondly, an unearthly weapon hardly comes into the possession of an earthly individual.

It was then that he met her brown, deep eyes. They were somehow exotic, foreboding... and _powerful_. Yes, he was right; she was no _normal_ human—the way her eyes glared at him, the way her hair seemed to _float_ around her face, said otherwise. Teatime didn't much think on appearances (and as far as they went she was pretty enough, he supposed), so it was her confident, strong posture that fascinated him, and he found himself thinking that this woman could be _very _interesting.

_Susan_, he decided, the name entering his mind with ease. _The granddaughter of death himself, Duchess of Sto-Helit. Spunky, dangerous, a good friend and dangerous enemy—not someone to mess with._

Right. 'Not someone to mess with'. It seemed, from everything he knew about her, that she was going to try and stop him—which made her an obstruction to his plans. He felt a slight twinge of disappointment, as he really was rather curious as to what Death's granddaughter was capable of, but what had to be done had to be done.

Inwardly, he sighed. _Oh no_, he thought, _she's going __to make me _have_ to kill her, isn't she? _ Then he mentally grinned. _Still, it'll be fun until I have to._

All of this thought took approximately a quarter of a second to pass through Teatime's head.

*

THREE YEARS LATER

Susan sat at her desk in the school, grading papers and tests. As dull as it sounds, Susan always enjoyed doing this—it cleared out all the random thoughts and focused her mind. It almost reminded her of cleaning up a room; throwing all the junk out while sorting whatever was left.

Today's work was especially enjoyable; creative, thoughtful, students, writing intelligent, well written—oh. Great.

Susan sighed as she reached a near _illegible _document, giving it the exasperated glare she usually saved for her grandfather.

_I'm going to have to have a talk with _you_, Stevie Carter_, she thought dryly, squinting as she attempted to read a string of words that looked far too much like 'starving tiny kitties with rocks bang bang'. She sighed in relief when she made out the _actual _sentence.

_Footsteps_.

"Who's there?" she asked, glancing up from her papers.

A man in a Hawaiian shirt with an Ankh-Morporkian language phrase book in his hands smiled nicely, flipping through the pages as quickly as he could.

"Excuse..." he started, saying the word slowly as he sounded it out, "me, ..._Miss_. Could you... show me... the... Unseen... _University_, please?"

"What?" Susan blinked. Oh, no... this wasn't a _tourist_,was it?

"Excuse me, Miss," he started again, "Could you please—"

"No, no, I heard you—"

The man blinked in confusion. Susan blinked back. After a few seconds of silence, Susan mentally sighed, stood, walked around her desk, across the room and closed the book in the tourist's hands while she smiled as nicely as she could. Unfortunately, it came across looking a rather foreboding and ironic.

"_Busy, _working," she said the words slowly, trying her best to make him understand as she grabbed his shoulders and pushed him (gently) to the door. "...grading. Teacher, students. Goodbye. Leave. Go. _NOW._"

She'd heard legends about these... _tourists, _and they sounded like the last thing she needed.

_Besides, someone would have to be retarded to miss the Unseen University, _Susan thought. _It's in the very center of the city, sticking up like a sore thumb—_literally_._

The tourist turned towards her, and Susan cocked her head, waiting.

"Miss, I really need your help," he said. "I've been looking all over the city everywhere, and—"

Susan was a little confused at this point.

"You speak Ankh-Morporkian?"

"A tourist should always use a text-book, so people know you are one."

"And just who told you _that?_" she said, a little incredulously, her hands on her hips.

The tourist's chest puffed up proudly.

"My father, the Great Tourist Twoflower. He traveled off the edge of the Turtle's back, you know!"

Susan blinked.

"Right. Look, I'm really not the one to help you, but I'd suggest heading for _the big tower sticking up in the middle of Ankh-Morpork_."

"What big tower sticking up in the middle of Ankh-Morpork? Dad said it'd be there somewhere, but I couldn't see it."

Susan rolled her head and eyes and gave out a loud huff as she opened the door to her school and stepped outside to the... somewhat fresher than indoors Ankh-Morporkian air.

_These tourists are worse than bogeys! _she thought exasperatedly.

She stepped outside, staring at the tourist and pointing up to the sky, where the tower should show above the buildings.

"_There_."

His eyes followed her finger, and he leaned sideways slightly, tilting his head.

"I don't see anything," he said cheerfully.

Susan laughed.

"What do you _mean, _you don't see anything? It's clear as a—" Susan glanced to where she was pointing. _There was nothing there._ "What?!"

The schoolteacher stared at the sky where the Unseen University _should _be poking upwards towards the sky, surprise and astonishment clearly written on her pale face. The tourist stepped up beside her, smiling up at the eternal expanse.

"What is it, Miss?"

Susan pried her eyes from the—from where the Unseen University was supposed to seen and began a brisk march along the road, her mouth in a determined, straight, line.

"What are you doing, Miss?" the tourist said, quickening his pace and falling in step beside her.

"Getting to the bottom of this."

"So this sort of thing isn't normal?"

"For me?"

The tourist shrugged.

"_If _for some unknown reason I actually _enjoyed '_this sort of thing', I'd say today was rather boring."

The tourist nodded excitedly.

"How wonderful—a real, Ankh-Morporkian adventure! Dad told me all about these... Isn't this exciting?!"  
"_Invigorating,_" Susan mumbled sardonically.

"What is your name, anyway, Miss?"

"My _name_ is Susan," she attempted to quicken her pace and lose this tourist, but he wasn't even breathing heavily, his face bright and chipper.

"Fourclover, Miss Susan."

"Hmm."

It took approximately ten minutes to reach the Unseen University. Or rather, the big gaping hole in the center of the city filled with hundreds of Ankh-Morporkians speaking all at once where it _should_ have been.

"Oh, bollocks," Susan cursed quietly.


	2. Duel

**Author's Notes: Hi! Here's the second installment to _Literally_—Death comes to visit, Susan gets exasperated, and Teatime dodges a poker. **

**Oh, I'd also like to apologize for any inconsistencies with the actual _Discworld_ series—I've only read _Hogfather _and _The Wee Free Men, _and only watched _The Colour of Magic _and _Hogfather _so I've had to fill in the gaps with wikipedia and my own imagination. **

**Disclaimer: **The _Discworld _is the property of Terry Pratchett—I only have the honor of entering it.

Chapter Two

Duel

Susan and Fourclover weren't the _only_ individuals who happened to notice—or fail to notice—the Unseen University (in fact, there were 373 others who did, but they don't have any consequence to this story, so why bother with them). In fact, there was one other soul (if you don't count the other 372) who was examining, with dismay, the lack of a Wizard's Tower in the center of the city. A soul, in fact, quite _literally._

"Well, this is certainly disappointing," Teatime said with his high, off voice as he cocked his head, staring with that cold, iron gaze that could send chills down _anyone's _spine. "And here I was thinking everything would be so... _simple_."

It was then that Teatime noticed Susan, standing across from him in the crowd next to a man wearing a Hawaiian shirt (could he be a _tourist...?_). She was gazing up at where the university should be, a look of pure confusion written all over her face. She wasn't going to let this one rest, he could tell.

Teatime ducked behind a few individuals discretely, knowing she, unlike the majority of people here, _would _be able to see him. He didn't much feel like being impaled with a poker a _second _time, ghost or no.

And even worse, she was _sure _to pronounce his name wrong.

The _really _annoying thing was that she did it _on purpose. _It's not like she wasn't intelligent, couldn't remember it, or was making an honest mistake. It was that she was trying to _annoy _him (and succeeding). Really, she had every right to feel any way towards him she_ liked_, but didn't she at _least _owe him the courtesyof saying his _name_ correctly? _He _didn't go around calling her suss-SSAN, and _she _had pushed him off a balcony in the Tooth Fairy's castle, impaled him with a poker, _and _hit him. Rather hard, too.

Then again, he'd nearly ripped her hair out and attempted to hack her in two, but, as said earlier, _he _still wasn't calling suss-SSAN, and _she _had done _more_ bad things to _him_. It really wasn't _fair._

But no matter; Susan, whatever else she may be, was _smart_, and if he followed her, he'd _find _the Unseen University in no time. She had resources he lacked (namely Death for a grandfather), which might prove very handy in this situation. Not to mention, however she pronounced his name, she was one of the most interesting people on the whole Disc.

_I'll have to follow her when she leaves_, Teatime thought, nodding in affirmation._ Until then, however..._

The specter made his way through the crowd as discretely as he could, beginning to search the ground for _anything _that might give him some clue as to what had happened. Whole Universities didn't just go around disappearing everyday—without a very good reason, of course, and at the very most twice a week.

*

"What's going on here?" Susan said as she turned on Fourclover, glaring at her poor companion with a fire in her eyes.

"What do you mean?" the tourist asked, confused.

"Oh, _come now_. You expect to believe you just _happened _to be tourist...-ing Ankh-Morpork and looking for the Unseen University on the very day it just _happens _to disappear, and the one person you just _happen _to ask just _happens _to be _me, _of all people?! Now tell me: _what _is_ go_ing_ on?!_"

Fourclover was a little taken aback.

"Um, I'm sorry, Miss Susan, but I really am just as clueless as you are," he glanced up at the unseen Unseen University, sighing slightly in a sad way.

Susan turned on her heel and began to march towards her school, inwardly steaming. This moment is when she would normally go and research in the library at the Unseen University (as the wizards there had been very friendly towards her since the Hogswatch incident), trying to find information. Of course, she couldn't do _that_, now, could she (just _what _she'd _research_ she didn't have a clue, but she hadn't really thought that far and being agitated was the only thing keeping Susan from freaking out)?

"Where are you going?!" the tourist called, attempting to catch up.

"Back to the school, Fourclover. I think—" she glanced to her left, surprised not to see him in-step beside her. "Fourclover?" she called (a little confused) as she turned in a circles a few times. But she couldn't see him anywhere; just some green growth striving to reach sunlight through the cracks in the pavement. Susan glanced around, then, a little unnerved, began to walk back towards her school.

Finally, she was in her familiar classroom, sitting behind her familiar desk, looking at the familiar bad handwriting of one of her familiar students. It was comforting to be back here, where everything had seemed so… _normal_, but something about the place felt… cold. She also had the terrible sensation that someone was watching her_. _Sighing, Susan leaned her head backwards, resting the nape of her neck on the top of the chair as she let everything sink in.

A few seconds passed, and she stood, taking in a deep breath as she dusted off her skirt. The chill still filled the room, but she didn't much mind—Susan rather liked the cold. She glanced at the tall grandfather clock in the classroom, the hands moving ever so slowly, and waited. Death had taken to visiting her every Thursday, and, if he was on schedule (which he nearly always was), he should here any minute now.

The hands slowed until, when they were moving as if through molasses, they _stopped_.

Susan? a familiar… 'voice' said. Susan swirled around, gasping, but rolled her eyes when she saw Death standing behind her.

"You could have appeared in _front _of me, you know."

Sorry, that was terribly rude of me, Susan. I wasn't looking where I was going. Death twiddled his long fingers, and if it were possible for a skeleton to look embarrassed, uncomfortable, or a little ashamed he really did. Susan sighed.

"It's good to see you again, Granddad," she settled with.

Really?

"Of course."

If it were possible for a skeleton, complete with a black cloak, glowing blue eyes, and a _scythe _to beam, Death would have.

How has school been?

"It's been… it's been good. My students are learning. They really are very sweet... for children."

I'm glad things are working out so well for you.

There was an awkward silence.

Have you seen Time at all?

Susan bent her head and dusted off her skirt once more in an attempt to hide her warming cheeks. She coughed slightly.

"No."

She coughed again.

In fact, she hadn't heard _anything _from Lobsang for almost a month now. They had gotten on so well before, and… and well, she was the Granddaughter of Death and he was the son of Time (though he'd recently taken the job himself), they had seemed like such a pair. She had rather hoped that… that maybe they could be… _good friends._

At first he visited now and then, and she'd written a few letters to him, but then he'd stopped visiting, stopped writing, and Susan was too afraid that if she came and visited it would seem… presumptuous. It was obvious, after all, that he wanted nothing to do with her. Susan didn't feel like crying when she thought about that. She really didn't.

Susan lifted her head and rubbed an eye with her long pointer finger.

"No, I haven't heard from Lobsang at all."

Strange… neither have I. No one has heard from Astoria either.

"Love?"  
Yes.

What happened next took Susan off guard. First, Death was standing there, looking at her in that… _skeletal_ way of his, and then it was as if every atom in his 'body' split and flew outwards like grains of dust in the wind (or the Big Bang). Susan barely had time to notice this when it reversed.

"Granddad?!" she called, genuinely worried, stepping forwards. "Are you alright?!"

Death stared at his hands in surprise.

It appears so.

"What happened?!"

I seemed to have disintegrated, and then, after a short period of time, reintegrated.

"I _guessed _that much," Susan said. "But… but how? Why? Are you _sure _you're alright?!"  
This is the third time it's happened today.

"The _third?!_"

Well, there was the first time when I was collecting the soul of Bottlehead Brock, and then when I was argu—_debating _the meaning of life with Albert, and then… Death mumbled for a bit, ticking off each instance on his long, skeletal fingers. I'm sorry Susan; four times today. Eight over the past week.

"You nearly disintegrated _eight times _and you didn't tell me?!"

I was going to when I got here. I thought you'd be busy.

That reminded Susan of what _she _had to tell him.

"Oh, and Granddad, there's something I need to talk to you about."

Yes, Susan?

"The Unseen University is… _gone_."

What, Susan?

"The Unseen University is _gone_."

I'm not sure if I understand, Susan.

"There's a big bit of nothing where the University should be!"

Ah.

"Do you know _why _that is, Granddad?" she prompted.

Um… not really… Death shifted uncomfortably as he trailed off.

Susan narrowed her eyes. "Yes, Granddad…?"

Well, it seems to me that things are disappearing.

"Just the Unseen University," Susan corrected, but then she started to _think_… "…and Lobsang… and Love… and almost you… and Fourclover…"

The tourist?

"Mmmhmm…" Susan began to pace thoughtfully. "So things are disappearing. But _how, _and _why?_ Have people stopped believing in things again?"  
I doubt so, Susan. After the near assassination of the Hogfather, the Gods have been stirring up quite a share of belief and excitement for their respective personages.

Susan shivered slightly, remembering that fateful Hogswatch so long ago, when she'd help to save the Hogfather and fought against the Auditors of Reality, as well as _Tea_time.

_"I did say teh-ah-tim-eh. Please don't try to break my concentration by annoying me"_, Susan shivered a second time. The way he'd said each individual syllable had been... terrifying, even if she'd never admit it.

"Thank goodness he's gone for good," Susan said under her breath.

Who, Susan?

"Teatime—sorry, Granddad. I... I was wandering. Where were we?"

You had suggested a lack of belief.

"Right. So _that _isn't it... But what else _could _it be? I mean, if it were just Lobsang, Astoria and you we could assume someone was out for the anthropomorphic personifications, but a _tourist...?_"

This certainly will require deliberation. Susan, a month or so ago I sensed a... _disturbance _in the world; some kind of magical concentration. It was conducted by an Mark Riddly.

"What of him?"

He is a wizard of... of reasonable sense.

"Sense? _Wizards?_"

As far as wizards go.

"That makes more sense."

I would think that he would have information on this.

"Then where could I find him, Granddad?"

Um... the Unseen University.

"Just _brilliant,_" Susan said, ringing her hands in exasperation, then rounded on her grandfather despairingly. "But you're supposed to know where _everyone _is!"

Susan, I _do_. It's as if those who have disappeared—it's as if they have not only died, but ceased to _exist_. Become... something else.

"I don't understand."

Neither do I, Granddaughter… I wish I did. But Susan, there is one thing you should know.

"What?"

The Unseen University hasn't disappeared.

"But, Granddad—"

It is there, along with everyone within it. You cannot touch it, you cannot see it, but I can feel it there, Susan, unlike the rest of those who have disappeared. I _know _it is there, right where it is supposed to be, but... but for unknown reasons, I cannot go myself. I cannot touch it, or see it... but it is there.

An ironic smile played at the corner of Susan's lips.

"And I suppose I'm going to have to go there, then?"

You should probably wait until after class tomorrow, Susan.

"You just assume I will?"

I look forwards to seeing you next week. Good luck on your endeavor.

"Granddad!"

Goodbye, Granddaughter.

Susan folded her arms angrily and plopped onto her desk abruptly, a cross expression on her face as Death faded away.

Teatime (who was, at the moment, phased inside the grandfather clock), on the other hand, smiled in amusement at the awkwardly affectionate scene he had just witnessed, before sliding through walls and shadows back to the Unseen University.

As a ghost, Teatime found it even easier to step over reality, to cross ten feet of ground in a single step merely through the belief that he _could_. It was this trait, this confidence in his abilities, that allowed him to do the things that appeared impossible—step backwards and appear in front of someone, see someone (e.g. Susan) raise their fist with his peripheral vision and stop them from hitting him in the split second that followed… etc. Because of this, it only took him five strides to reach the strangely empty gap in the center of Ankh-Morpork, which, in his opinion, almost stood out_ more _than the actual University had, in this city where every spare block was crammed with six houses/apartments, at least eight shops, a guild, and in some cases an inn.

It was then that Teatime remembered the assassin's guild—the place he'd called home since he was a young child. He had worked his whole life to become an assassin, and his sole dream had been to make one of his victims reach the Wall. Teatime didn't care for power—what fun was that? It was so much more enjoyable to make others _squirm _with simple words, to have a power over their emotions and command them that way. Teatime didn't care for wealth—as long as he had a modest amount of food he was fine; what else was money _for? _And Teatime most _certainly_ didn't care about love, romantic or otherwise—how anyone could have any feelings for anyone eluded him. People were weak and fickle, and why bother with them?

So, with nothing that really motivated him, Teatime lived to be perfect in his work. He was top of his class, stealthiest there, and he could kill in the most creative ways—and do it _quietly_, keeping the victim from making any sound in the slightest. And he had finally become a full fledged assassin, just as he had wanted, and had been so close to reaching the Hall, the portrait of the Hogfather hanging there on the Wall. He had been so close, and then Susan Sto-Helit had gone and impaled him with a poker.

_Wasn't that _nice_ of her? _Teatime thought ironically as he ground his phantom teeth, finishing his fifth step and entering the blank circle.

Walking to where the front door should have been (good memories—it had been so much _fun _slicing it up with Death's sword), Teatime glanced at the ground. There, a single four-leafed clover hung over a small key. He had found it when he'd searched the vacant gap earlier, but Susan had left in such a hurry that he hadn't had time to fully examine it. Bending down to his knees, and ignoring the shouts of police trying to calm the confused crowd that still lingered around the lack-of-a-building, Teatime attempted to grab the key. He scowled as his hand passed through it.

Unfortunately for Teatime, as a young apprentice assassin he had been terribly worried about his future victims becoming _ghosts_. That would almost completely defeat the point of killing them in the first place, wouldn't it? So he had researched the topic, and had learned (among other things) that a ghost was incapable of becoming solid to any unliving thing, except for whatever had been on their person during their death (e.g. Teatime's knife and clothing). If he hadn't read that, he probably could have picked up the key just fine. But he happened to be rather confident in the expertise of whoever had written it, and unconsciously believed in his inability. The fact that he knew this irritated him even more.

"Shame. Doesn't hurt to try, though."

Still, as his hand had passed through the key, something very interesting had happened. The moment his ghostly spirit had touched the metal, the Unseen University had become, once more, _seen_. But only to him, it appeared, as no one else had noticed the change. Now that the key lay untouched, the University was invisible. Teatime phased through the key once more, and once again the building reappeared.

Fascinated, the assassin turned to the key and looked back to when he had slashed the Unseen University's front door open. Teatime prided himself on his memory, and was naturally very observant (besides, now, as a ghost, all he _was _was pure consciousness. His memories had never been so clear, or so readily available), so it was easy for him to remember the color of the lock, the type of the medal, the size and shape of it…

_Yes,_ he thought, _this key could most definitely be the one_. _But _I _can't pick it up… _Teatime sighed. _I suppose I'll have to tell Susan about it, or lead her to it somehow. This is going to be… _tricky_._

Then again, Teatime liked tricky.

*

Susan shivered for the fifth time this class. It had been so chilly today—and not just cold, no, this was an unnatural, ethereal chill that sent spiders crawling down her spine. Susan liked the cold; she didn't like _this._

"Miss Susan?" one of her students asked, and she realized she'd been staring at the back of the room for the past minute or so.

"Yes—" she heard the quake in her voice, closed her eyes and took in a breath. "Yes, Stevie?"

"Why don't schools have fireplaces?" his small voice piped as he shivered.

Susan was beginning to wonder that herself.

"I—," she started, "…I don't know."

A hand shot up into the air.

"Yes, Twyla?"

It was nice to have her former charge in her class—Susan really did love Twyla and Gawain. She didn't know when it had happened, but they both had a very dear place in her heart and it was good not to have to say goodbye to them completely.

"Is there a bogey, here?" Twyla said. "Sometimes they make places get all _cold_."

Susan smiled. _Good, Twyla, _she thought. Now that her student had mentioned it, she wondered how she could have possibly have remained oblivious for so long. Perhaps she was getting a little too human.

"But we don't have a poker…" Twyla remembered, her head drooping.

Susan smiled once more, reaching under her desk.

"Lesson one in Monster Management: _always_ keep a poker in close vicinity," she said, stretching it out in front of her like a rapier as the children's faces brightened.

Susan turned and advanced towards the grandfather clock—the chill was emanating from there.

Twyla had not been so far off; in fact, there _had _been a bogeyman in the classroom earlier that day, before school had started. What Susan didn't know was that that certain monster had attempted to frighten the ghost of Jonathan Teatime—and it had _failed _miserably. But now that bogey was gone—it had been _quite _annoying and Teatime had been glad he had killed it with his knife's ghost up until now, when he wished he could throw it out into the open to take Susan's wrath. She looked like she was ready to bang the clock to pieces, and Teatime had the sinking suspicion she _would._ Sinking, because though phasing in and out of things _slowly_ was intriguing and useful, passing through things in quick succession could be quite painful. Better to step out before she tried and avoid the poker if possible; he had to speak with her eventually anyhow and why not now? Besides, it was getting boring standing in the clock all alone with no one to mess with—and if there was one thing Teatime _was _afraid of, it was boredom.

So he stepped through the clock in a smooth stride, directly before the schoolteacher.

"_TEATIME!?_" Susan said, dropping her poker-arm from its ready-stance in surprise.

Teatime closed his eyes tightly, sighed, then stared at her firmly.

"Teh-ah-tim-eh, Susan," he said as civilly as he could, "I've told you before; _Teh-ah-tim-eh!_"

"But—but you're _dead!_" Susan said in astonishment.

"Poker him, Miss Susan—like you did before!" Twyla called, clapping in excitement, as the other students watched with glee.

"Unless… unless this isn't you," she raised her poker arm once more. "You _are_ a bogeyman, aren't you? _Job well done_; you surprised me. But _Tea_time doesn't frighten me—he's dead and gone and has been for a long time." She turned her head to her students quickly; "_That's _how you handle a bogey—they thrive on your fear."

Teatime crossed his arms and cocked his head at Death's granddaughter. She didn't look much different than how he'd seen her last time—hair tight in a bun, a black, proper dress, poker ready and waiting…

_Poker ready and waiting!_

Susan lunged—with slightly surprising skill—and attempted to skewer him. Lucky for Teatime, he saw it coming and stepped forwards (seemingly towards the poker's terrible tip) but somehow ended up directly behind the schoolteacher.

Susan, more than a little surprised, swerved around to face him. Astonishment was written clearly on her face, and Teatime couldn't help smile.

"Want to try again?" he asked, perhaps more than a little antagonizingly.

She stepped back to gain momentum and came at him hard, swinging at his the head like a samurai. Just as the poker came clashing down, she made an ark and swerved behind her. Had Teatime chosen to repeat his earlier action, the poker would have slid right through his middle. Unfortunately, he was smarter than that, appearing about six inches away from her left shoulder.

"Can bogeys dance around you like this, Susan?" he asked quietly.

He watched, fascinated, as the muscles in her neck tensed, as her lips pursed, as her body stiffened. Susan swung at him again, her face determined and mouth a straight line. Teatime was a little surprised by how easily he'd made her so agitated, but found he rather enjoyed doing it (when he _wasn't_ standing on a balcony about to be pushed off and hit the ground three-hundred stories below—oh, he could just hear her: "Hi, inner child—I'm the inner baby sitter!". It'd _hurt_, how hard she'd hit him).

Teatime made a couple calculations as Susan pulled her arm back; as he could see it, he had three choices:

**OPTIONS:**

**A: ** Step out of her way again.

**Possible outcomes:**

**1: **Susan misses and gets angrier.

**2:** Susan guesses where he lands and hits him—of course, this way his _ethos _and _pride _would most definitely suffer.

**3: **Susan drops the poker, gives up, and listen to what he has to say since she really can't do anything else (unlikely)

**B: **Use one of the children as a hostage.

**Possible outcomes:**

**1: **Susan gets angrier and attacks him anyway. He would lose any chance of gaining her assistance with the Unseen University.

**2: **Susan appears to do exactly what he says, while plotting until she eventually finds a way to defeat him (he wouldn't underestimate Susan Sto-Helit again—_ever_. Teatime prided himself by his ability to learn from his mistakes).

**3: **Susan hears him out and decides to help (unlikely).

**C: ** Let her hit him.

**Possible outcomes:**

** 1:** Susan takes advantage of this moment to pull the poker in and out of him as many times in quick succession as possible, causing him extreme pain, and is completely unphased by the fact that she can put the side of a poker through him.

** 2: **Susan is so shocked by the poker's apparent ability to go through him she just stands there, giving him a chance to say his piece (unlikely).

After careful consideration (and with a couple modifications) Teatime decided on option C.

This took him approximately an eighth of a second to decide.

So Susan pulled her arm back like a catapult and swerved to her left, aiming directly at his curly head. The poker passed through him, and Teatime resisted the urge to close his eyes in the surge of pain that followed. Susan stared at him in confusion as her make-do weapon appeared to vanish into his skull. The assassin raised his eyebrows as if to say 'Curious?' and fell backwards into the floor, as if dead.

The children cheered, but Susan knew that _this _'bogeyman' was not yet defeated.

And no one, save her, seemed to notice that the room hadn't gotten any warmer.


	3. Teatime Tries to be Temperate

**Author's Note:**** Hello, and here is Chapter Three. This section is a little shorter than my last, and focuses more on Susan and Teatime 'joining forces' than the actual plot of the story. Be prepared: hair is pulled, knives are drawn, and shaky, distrustful, just-for-the-moment teams forged. **

**Death will most likely show up in Chapter Four (which will most likely be called 'Well, This Sucks' but I may change my mind) and you can expect further plot developments in that section as well.**

**Disclaimer: **I wish I was genius enough to create something as fantastic as the Discworld like Mr. Pratchett has, but I'll borrow and copy it for this. It belongs to him, and I'm only mimicking it.

Chapter Three

Teatime Tries to be Temperate

(unsuccessfully)

The students trickled out of the school as Susan tapped her foot impatiently. Normally they rushed out like birds just freed from a cage into the blue sky, but now they seemed to move like slugs that had to do homework and chores after they left. In other words, they weren't moving _nearly _fast enough.

At last, _slowly_, the last two students left the building, and Susan closed the door behind them. Then she rounded around with her arms crossed.

"Alright, _Tea_time! I know you're here." She continued sardonically, "Come out, come out, wherever you are!"

"Yes, Susan?"

She whirled around (_why _did people keep showing up _behind _her?) in surprise.

"What are you doing here, Teatime?" she asked, stalking up to him, refusing to say his name correctly.

He stared at her silently, head cocked, his black and white eyes boring into her. She hid a shiver at their intensity.

"I came to help you."

"I find that hard to believe," she said skeptically, crossing her arms.

"As I understand it, you are trying to find the Unseen University?"

"How long have you been watching me, Teatime?" she said, her voice a mixture of anger and surprise.

"That doesn't matter much, _does _it?" he grinned; Susan _glared_. "What _does _matter, however, is that I've found a way into the University."

"And you're sharing this information with me... _why?_"

"Would you like to know how to get in, or not?"

"Not until you tell me what's in it for you, Teatime."

"Very well," Teatime turned on his heel in one smooth motion and began to walk towards the door. A few seconds later a poker came through his shoulders and he scrunched his eyes in pain. He could _feel _it coming down towards him again, though he could not see it, and stepped to his right, popping up beside Susan's left shoulder and pulling her hair back—_hard_—before you could say 'Ouch!'.

"OUCH!" Susan screeched in her **Voice **as her head pulled back. Teatime flinched, but kept a firm hold as her hair crawled in his fingers, attempting to escape. She jerked her head upwards, but still he held fast and she only succeeded in wrenching tears of pain out of her skewed-shut eyes.

_I'm chopping it off! I'm CHOPPING IT OFF! _she mentally screeched.

That might not have been the best thing to think, as Susan's hair, desperate to defend itself, immediately began to twine itself around Teatime's fingers—and then _un_-twine itself, as it realized Teatime intended to rip it out anyway_._

"I've tried to be civil, Susan, but you are making it very... _difficult_," he whispered gently into her ear. "I'd very much like to think of you and me as _friends_, but it's oh so hard when you keep... _slashing _at me with that pokerof yours. So, if you could set it down—_gently—_we may be able to talk. _Slowly_, Susan," she remained still. "Do hurry."

"Which do you want," she said levelly, "_Slowly _or _hurriedly?_"

"_Honestly,_" he paused, dipping half an inch closer to her ear,_ "_I don't much care."

"What will you do? _Rip my hair out?_" she asked coolly.

Teatime sighed.

Later, Susan would argue that he hadn't had time to reach into _anything_. That there was nothing there and that he had no opportunity to bring it out. Yet still, _somehow, _his knife _was—_no soon-to-be, no almost, no quarter-of-an-inch-away; just _there—on her throat_. Susan felt a little cheated; he hadn't played by the rules everyone (save gods and granddaughters of anthropomorphic personifications) had to play by: _physics._

"I hadn't wanted to use this..." Teatime said, slowly pulling the blade down her neck—enough to feel cold, but not breaking skin. "But what must be done must be done. If I let you go, Susan, can we talk like _civilized _Ankh-Morporkians?"

"Over a cup of _tea_, perhaps? Or is it not that _time_, yet?" She smiled smugly.

Susan has always been proud, and because of that sometimes she doesn't know when to shut up. Then again, that's why we all love her—and one of the reasons Teatime found her intriguing, if terribly _annoying _now and then. Such as _now._

"You are beginning to get on my nerves, Susan," he said, a little _too _coolly.

"_Good—_"

—He yanked her hair back before she could finish the word. She resisted the urge to scream, letting out a small whimper instead as she screwed her eyes shut. Teatime couldn't help but feel a slight twinge of pleasure, glad to get back at her for the poker incidents (and for mispronouncing his name. After all, he'd been _terribly _patient this time—he hadn't even corrected her _once. _He'd actually been rather proud of his self restraint, but sometimes enough was just _enough_).

"See, Susan, you have a choice here," he purred, close enough for his breath (technically, ghosts aren't supposed to have breath, but neither Teatime nor Susan knew this, so the Disc let him breathe on anyway) to ghost across her face, enjoying the feeling coursing through him—no, Teatime didn't care for castles, or politics, or gold, or vassals... _this _was the power he craved. The ability to make others _cringe _at his voice, feeling Susan _squirm _in his grasp, her hair _tangling _itself, was enough. "I'm going to explain why I came, and you are going to listen. You can _choose _to fight me, but I doubt that will go anywhere. Do you understand?"

The smallest of smiles crossed her lips.

"Do you really think—"

"Suuu-saaan..." he interrupted in a warning sing-song voice, idly drawing invisible images on her neck with the point of his knife. Something about it scared Susan out of her wits.

She closed her eyes and nodded as best she could with her head torqued back, eager to get _away _from his strong presence. Susan hadn't been this near him in three years, and it was terribly unnerving to be there again. Teatime was one with a distinct... _aura _about him. He could send chills down your spine with his breath, his voice, his stare—even if you couldn't see it. Sometimes, she had had nightmares like this—and the _feeling _had never left her. The chill he sent through her, the fear only he could stir... she had remembered it all these years.

And she needed to get away.

The pulling on her hair slacked, then released, and Susan she bounced forwards like a rubber band. She rubbed her sore neck and let out the breath she hadn't know she was holding. Then she turned on Teatime with a terrible glare. She wanted to slap him, but had the sinking suspicion that he would catch her arm before she got close.

"See? Is this so _hard?_" Teatime asked.

"_What _do have to say, _Tea_time?"

"You have to find Marc Riddly, and I have certain interests there as well."

"What 'interests'?" she asked cautiously, clenching her fists discretely.

"I'd rather not go into that, Susan. But I've searched where the University should be; the key to the front door is on the ground before it."

"A key to an invisible building? What use is that?"

"I'm not sure why—but if you touch it, the University _is_ visible and, as far as I know, _feasible _once more."

"And what do you intend to do, Teatime? Why do you need me?"

"If you must know," he sighed, "I can't pick it up."

"You _what?_"

"I'm a _ghost_, Susan. I am not... _solid_."

"You seemed solid enough to _me_," she replied skeptically.

"You have a soul, a consciousness. You _believe _you should feel me, that I should be solid to you. It is that alone that allows me to touch you in any way."

"So if I stopped _believing _that you could—" Susan started…

He laughed.

"It isn't so _simple_, Susan. As an example, if I believed I could pick up the key to the University, I _could_."

Susan nodded thoughtfully. As she could see it, she had two things that had to be done: tell Death about the assassin's ghost and figure out what was going on with the Unseen University. As much as she wanted to be rid of Teatime, who knew what lay inside the now-invisible building? And, as long as this wasn't some twisted plot to get back at her for impaling him with a poker (she wouldn't put it passed him), he _could _be rather useful if something, as he would say, '_dreadful_' was waiting for them. Not to mention, she wouldn't have to crawl on her knees looking all over for the key if he showed her where it was.

Susan sighed in resignation.

"Show me the key, Teatime."

He dipped his head in compliance, stepped forwards, _was _directly beside her (facing the same direction) and grabbed her arm. She attempted to pull away, but he was stronger than he appeared.

"Step with me, Susan."

In a few quick strides, they reached the unseen Unseen University. Teatime glanced around, spotted the key and pointed towards it. Susan knelt slowly as her hair unwound and grew around her face. The assassin above her watched, fascinated, as it curled, uncurled, and eventually settled into a kind of puffy braid tied into a knot at the nape of her neck.

Susan, on the other hand, was staring at the key—and the tiny, delicate four-leafed clover beside it.

"A _four-leafed _clover...?" she whispered softly.

"What?" Teatime asked, his face beside hers, staring at the tiny plant, more quickly than humanly possible.

"I... I don't know."

She touched the clover delicately, then grasped the key and stood abruptly. And there was the University, just as unnormal, tall, and (most importantly) _seen_ as usual. She smiled.

"Do you see it?" Teatime asked.

Susan nodded, the key firmly held in her had. Teatime slid a finger into the metal protruding from her clasped fist and stared at the tower before them.

"Shall we?" Susan asked levelly, staring straight ahead.

Teatime cocked his head.

"We… _shall_."

In sync, the two stepped up to the door of the Unseen University and placed the key in the lock.


	4. Well, This Sucks

**Author's Notes:**** And now for the fourth chapter of the epic fanfic **_**Literally!**___**Well, epic in my own, deluded, optimistic mind. Parties are cut short, assassinations unfinished, and things, in general, **_**suck**_**.**

**Thank you, for those of you who have stuck with this story up to now, and very **_**special **_**thanks to coffee-mill and sylphxpression for your wonderful reviews—I might have given up without them. Also, I'd like to dedicate this chapter to my very best friend, known here as Dear Sister. Her ideas and input made this story happen.**

**Disclaimer:** The characters and places in this story (besides a few) belong to Terry Pratchett—let's all thank him for his wonderful books; I'm just playing around with them.

Chapter Four

Well, This Sucks

Death was good at his job; there really was no denying it—but not good the in _traditional _fashion. No, in fact, Death was rather bad at collecting souls diligently. He was good _morally_. Such as the time he played a game of poker for the life of a grandmother's grandchild; he'd had four aces, she four queens. Death had lost, since, _obviously_, he had four _ones_.

Not to say that he didn't do his duty. Death collects the souls whose times are up, walks them up to the afterlife (whatever that may be; no one _really_ knows besides those who have already died) and attempts good conversation (often ending up a little awkward, though now and then coming to some rather interesting subjects—e.g. the meaning of life) along the way. He simply finds ways to use **The Rules **to his advantage, or bend them slightly (like the time he'd been standing in for the Hogfather and had given a little match girl a future, not letting her freeze to death—the state of being, not the anthropomorphic personification—in the snow), if only for a little extra time to wrap up affairs, or spend with loved ones.

Death, if you could count him as a person, was a very good one. And he _cared_, unlike many other personifications out there. Not to say mankind didn't completely confuse him, but he was intrigued by it, and had its best interests at heart for reasons he had never really defined. Something about the race just struck a chord in him, so to speak, and it was for that reason that he strove so hard to help and protect it when he could (the rest of the time, there was Susan).

On the other hand, when someone died, _they had died_. There shouldn't be a way around that. It didn't _fit _with the order of the world. So, for the most part, Death attempted to retrieve the escaped spirits as one would retrieve escaped convicts. They were, in a way, an insult to himself and reality. Not to mention, of course, that ghosts were generally the darkest, maddest, and _cruelest_ of the human race. Why the _good_, _kind_, and _sweet _individuals chose to stay dead Death really didn't know.

Ghosts truly befuddled him and were terribly hard to retrieve, as it was near impossible to figure out that they had gone in the first place. Death _collected _souls; he didn't keep track of them after their demise. He was, in fact, a very transitory stage of… not life, but _being. _Because of this, he only discovered ghosts through word of mouth, or if he randomly happened to bump into one or another by some great bit of good (or bad, from the ghost's perspective) luck. Then came the long ordeal of reentering them back into the afterlife, rewriting their date of entry… etc, etc. Dealing with ghosts, to use a human expression, was a terribly vexing experience.

So when an old wizard acquaintance of his (they met often, as the man—Rincewind—happened to have a talent of getting into many near-fatal incidents but just barely making it out alive) who had somehow survived for who-knew-how-long mentioned he'd seen a ghost where the Unseen University should have been, Death shook his head sadly and sighed.

NOW, he thought, IS AS GOOD A TIME AS ANY TO MIMIC HUMANITY.

And for the first time in his… _life,_ so to speak, Death procrastinated.

*

Susan shoved the key into the Unseen University's door roughly. Teatime was _certain _that she had pushed the key in quickly only to cause him pain, but a few seconds after remembered she didn't know things phasing through him (quickly) _caused _him any pain. Susan, he decided, was aligned with the stars to make him miserable.

The key did turn, and it was an odd sensation feeling the tumblers click and… well, _tumble_, inside his hand. He had a relatively good understanding of how they worked (what assassin didn't?), but it was a novel experience never-the-less and he was rather intrigued.

Susan, on the other hand, just wanted to get into this pesky building that had disappeared on her (how _dare _it) and so she swung the door open with a strong arm and marched inside, not even noticing her school-teacher outfit switch to the Granddaughter of Death's attire. Teatime, however, did notice, and cocked his head as he followed her through the door.

For the Unseen University, everything appeared rather… _normal_. Students traveled back and forth studying, obscure mumbling came from the various rooms, the sound of magical experiments taking place echoed throughout the halls…

Susan began to march forwards once more, but Teatime's hand snapped to her arm, hovering approximately a sixteenth of an inch away as he stared over his shoulder at the door.

"Look behind you, Susan…"

Her head, complete with the halo of white hair shifting in its make-do nape-of-the-neck braid, turned behind her quickly, and her eyes widened at what she saw.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," she complained to no one in particular.

Through the door… well, through the door was _nothing_. Not blackness, or whiteness, or blue or gray—but _nothing_, like the horizon in the Tooth Fairies Castle exterior. Susan's eyes began to water and her brain ached at the shear impossibility of it, so she glanced downwards while putting a slender hand to her head as Teatime cocked his in fascination. Unfortunately for him, he didn't have much of a chance to examine 'the nothing' before Susan slammed the door shut.

"Let's find Marc Riddly, shall we?" she said coolly, shoving the fact that they were... _trapped _out of her mind.

"We're going to have to find a way out eventually, Susan," he said calmly, his hands folded softly behind him, completely ruining the teacher's attempt.

"But _not _now," Susan said resolutely, striding down the hall towards the dining room, sure to find the wizards there.

"Perhaps not," Teatime agreed quietly as she sped forwards, a small smile playing at his lips. He shook his head as he began to follow.

_My specialty is belief;_ he thought speculatively, _hers is denial. It seems _almost _as useful._

*

The banquet hall had been evacuated. No one, besides the few head wizards (including the Arch Chancellor Ridcully, the Dean, and the Lecturer in Recent Runes), knew _why_, but since odd happenstances and the Discworld generally mixed, the 'odd happenstances' didn't seem quite so odd anymore. Just because they were no longer considered 'odd', however, didn't mean they weren't dangerous, or that no one was worried. In fact, this time, the wizards were _very_ worried.

"We have a very serious problem, here—" Ridcully started in his raspy voice.

"I think we've all noticed that!" the Dean interjected worriedly.

"...it appears," the Arch Chancellor continued, raising his voice slightly and ignoring the Dean's remark, "...that we have disappeared."

A chorus of what might have been whispers but was probably just incomprehensible (assuming there was anything to _comprehend_) mumbling filled the room. Wizards like to _make _things disappear—it was unsettling (and just plain _wrong_) when they disappeared themselves, as they didn't know much about the other end of the disappearing scope of things.

"You mean to say," the Lecturer started, "that back in Ankh-Morpork the University is _gone?_"

Ridcully nodded darkly.

"Dean, have you gotten to blocking off the windows?"

The Dean nodded.

"_Do_ _not worry_—I have it completely covered. I boarded them up and had written all over them the words 'Do not look behind these boards'."

"Just like Bloody Stupid Johnson's bathroom was?"

"Yes," the Dean said proudly as he nodded, "exactly like—" his eyes widened. "You don't think the students...?"

"They're _wizards_, aren't they?" the Lecturer in Recent Runes said hopelessly.

A pounding started on the huge doors leading to the banquet hall, and the Arch Chancellor sighed heavily. _Why _did wizards have to be so darn _curious _all the time?

"Do you think it's them urging for anarchy now that the Unseen University is floating in _nothingness?_" the Dean wondered nervously.

The Arch Chancellor stood, straightened his robes, and glanced at all of his fellow wizards in turn.

"Alright. I'm going to answer it—I want you all to tell the students that there will be a surprise exam," he said loudly as he marched up to the door. "That might to keep them busy," he mumbled doubtfully.

Slowly, Ridcully opened the door, and was overwhelmingly relieved to see the hall filled with many _studying _students who seemed far too wrapped up in books to be prying wood off windows and seeing the nothing that lay behind them. Oh, and one Death's Granddaughter.

"Susan?" he asked, surprised.

"Hello, Chancellor," she said with a respectful nod.

"Do come in..." he said, stepping back and gesturing towards the middle of the room.

Susan entered, glancing around curiously before smiling tentatively at the other wizards, who mumbled slightly and raised their hands in greeting.

"You ought to know, sir," a high, friendly voice said in his ear. The Arch Chancellor swerved around in surprise to see a curly-haired young man with one black and one white eye staring (with iron gaze) at him. "...But it seems your students have developed a spell that can be used to predict the time of the next surprise test, and have been studying for it all day."

_By golly_, Ridcully thought, _I didn't even notice him coming _in. _I'd watched that door the whole time, hadn't I…?_

"I _knew _the students were _too_ quiet!" the Lecturer said under his breath.

"But _we _didn't even know we were having a test until now!" the Dean called out.

"Hey, you're that chap who fell onto our table during Hogswatch three years ago—you had that, um, that blue shining sword that went hmmmm-hmmm," he attempted to imitate the humming Death's Sword made.

"That is correct, sir," Teatime said. Something about him unnerved Ridcully. "But Susan and I haven't come here to talk about previous escapades. As I understand it, we are both looking for a man by the name of Marc Riddly."

Right, Riddly. It was annoying having someone with such a similar name to himself living in the university—_Riddly, Ridcully_.

"What do you want with Riddly?" the Arch Chancellor asked.

"Granddad told me that—" Susan started before pausing and cocking her head curiously. "What _do _you want with Marc Riddly, Teatime?"

"_Teatime? _So that's your name, chap?" Ridcully asked.

"It's _pronounced _teh-ah-tim-eh," he said, slightly agitated, then turned on his heel to face Death's granddaughter. "Isn't that right, Susan?"

She promptly rolled her eyes.

"Marc's not feeling very well—he's actually terribly sick," the Dean piped in. "Just down the hall, seventh door on the left. He's only in his room."

"Really?" Teatime said thoughtfully. "Do you think he might die?"

Ridcully shrugged.

"It's possible."

"Excuse me, Gentleman," he turned to Susan, "We'd best hurry, then…" Teatime deliberated for a thirty-second of a second, "…suss-SSAN," he added, continuing out of the room as if nothing had happened.

Susan steamed, following his stride if only to make it to Riddly before he died.

The wizards glanced at one another.

"So, any theories as to what's going on?" Ridcully asked.

The room grew strangely quiet—not even a nervous mumble broke the silence.

_Oh, boy,_ the Arch Chancellor thought, _we're in trouble _now.

*

The dancing, the music... it certainly was a very lovely masquerade. Death had always been enthralled by this odd human custom; why would so many choose to dance in such extravagant costumes while hiding their faces? It made no sense to him, but he enjoyed sitting at the outskirts, watching the vibrantly colored people—basically dancing tapestries—twirl, spin and create such harmony. Death was terrible at dancing himself—worse, even, than he was with his violin (and that was saying something)—but for unknown reasons it made him happy to watch the others socialize and spin.

"Care to dance, sir?" a lady dressed as a colorful peacock said with a deep curtsy. Death assumed she was speaking to someone else, but when she repeated her request he turned to her, slightly confused.

ME? He asked.

She seemed surprised at his voice, but nodded with a pleasant smile.

WELL, I SHOUD WARN YOU: I AM A TERRIBLE—

It was then that he felt the familiar heaviness of an hourglass in his cloak, the distinct tug of a life leaving... and a life he couldn't leave alone.

Now. Of all times. _NOW._

I AM DREADFULLY SORRY, BUT I REALLY MUST BE GOING.

"Oh, don't be shy!" she laughed.

REALLY, MY WORK IS SOMEWHAT LIMITING.

"What kind of work could this be?"

UM... THE KIND WITHOUT PAID VACATION. He glanced at his hands. PERHAPS WE SHALL MEET AGAIN?

The peacock smiled brightly and curtsied once more.

"Perhaps," she said, before moving on.

Death, when he was sure no one was looking, slowly faded.

He was rather surprised when he faded into a room in the Unseen University.

The room was rectangular and simple, just a dresser, a bed, a rug, and a desk covered in all sorts of papers, a quill, and ink. On the bed lay an old wizard, with a white beard and pointy shoes sticking out of the end of his foot-too-short blanket.

"Death? What are you doing here?"

MR. RIDDLY? OH, I'M DREADFULLY SORRY.

"Tell me, Death, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?"

UM...

"Speak up, old chap. Come now; why haven't you come to see me sooner? Why are you here now? It certainly had been a while, and it's good to... er, _hear _your voice again."

ARE YOU ILL, MR. RIDDLY?

"Why yes; how did you know?"

WELL, IT SEEMS YOU HAVE DIED.

"Died?! Don't be—" the wizard's eyes widened. "Oh. So this _isn't _a social call...?" he asked hopefully.

I'M AFRAID IT IS FULLY PROFESSIONAL.

"Oh."

The single door across the room from the bed swung open abruptly.

"Granddad?!" a familiar voice called as Susan entered. "I thought you couldn't come here."

Death sensed a presence.

SUSAN! DUTY CALLED ME. ARE YOU ALONE?

"No, Teatime—where is he, anyway?" she wondered, looking behind her curiously.

Teatime, in fact, was balancing on the top of the still-open door to Marc Riddly's room. He had thought, upon seeing Death, that hiding was probably the best option at the moment, noted the high ceiling, placed one foot on the door knob and defied the laws of physics the rest of the way.

EXCUSE ME, SUSAN, I MUST HAVE MISHEARD YOU; DID YOU SAY TEATIME?

"His specter assaulted me after class."

AND YOU'RE TRAVELLING WITH HIM WHY...?

"I've been asking _myself _the same question," Susan grumbled, but was deep down apprehensive and couldn't help but glance around nervously. An on-the-loose Teatime was _not _a good thing—she liked him (if not dead with a poker through him) where she could see him; figuratively speaking of course.

Teatime barely held back a laugh at her comment.

"Who is dying?" Susan wondered, remembering Death's reason for arriving here.

"_Apparently, _I am," Riddly mentioned, glad to have the attention turning in his direction.

"Are you Marc Riddly?" Susan asked.

Teatime listened intently, feeling into his ghost of a coat for his knife. _Then _he remembered all he had to do was phase into an object to become unnoticeable—instinct had taken over, he supposed. Just as well. If everything worked out and he got a physical body back (which he very much intended to do—being a ghost was interesting, but _not _something he wanted to be for the rest of his... er, life) it wouldn't do to be out of practice. Slowly, he slid into the wall above the door and came down into the ground moving towards Riddly's bed, ghost knife in hand.

"Yes," the wizard replied. "And I take it you are Susan? I've heard quite a bit about you."

"Really?" Susan glanced at Death, who (in the best human imitation he could muster) shrugged. "That's... nice."

"But what are you doing here, Miss Sto-Helit? I assume, as we haven't met, _this _isn't a social call either?" Riddly glanced accusingly at Death for half a second. Death shifted uncomfortably.

"No, I'm afraid it's fully professional."

Death felt a slight stab of pride hearing Susan say near exactly the same words he'd used earlier. It was a funny emotion, he decided, but one that made him feel another, equally funny emotion known to the disc as 'happiness', never-the-less.

"You see," Susan continued, "Death told me that you might know why the Unseen University disappeared? ...And certain tourists, anthropomorphic personifications... and..." she hesitated before continuing softly, "...and Lobsang?"

_Lobsang? Who is this _Lobsang? Teatime thought. He'd _never _heard of him before, and Teatime prided himself with his vast knowledge. He'd have to find that out; someone who could make Susan speak so softly was worth study.

"Oh, dear... That really is entirely my fault," the wizard started with a sigh. "You see—"

Strangely enough, it was right then that whoever controlled when old age took its hold decided Marc Riddly had to die.

So Death, who had just lost the chance of dancing with the pleasant peacock, Susan, who now felt certain she would never know what was going on or ever find Lobsang again, and Teatime, who had failed in an assassination (it really didn't _count _when your target keeled over and died on his _own, _now, did it? And it wasn't even any _fun _to watch) for the _second _time in a _row_, all thought simultaneously:

_Well, this sucks._


	5. Masquerade

**Author's Notes:**** Well, it's time for my fifth chapter. My third Original Character (mainly referred to as 'the peacock') plays a bit larger of role in here, and if I could get people's opinions on her that would be great. I rather like her myself, but if she's annoying the heck out of my readers I might show some mercy.**

**Someone has requested a crazier, evil-er Teatime, so I've attempted to create one in this chapter. Tell me if I've over or under done it, would you?**

**Keep in mind that I love reviews, I thrive on them, and that they make my day.**

**So, here we go: knives are drawn, innocents frightened, and Susan gets peeved (surprise, surprise).**

**Disclaimer: **The Discworld and all the characters therein belong to Mr. Terry Pratchett—I only own the plot, the peacock, Fourclover and Marc Riddly. Not that they're any good.

Chapter Five

Masquerade

All eyes watched Riddly's soul as it floated up and out of his body, his ghostly face covered with a bright, happy grin. Well, all eye's save Teatime's, who was finding much more interest in reading the papers littering the dying man's desk. Very intriguing things were written in a wizard's notes, the assassin was finding.

"Well, time to be off, then?" Marc Riddly asked.

Death nodded.

IT APPEARS SO.

"Wait!" everyone turned to Death's granddaughter (save Teatime; who knew so many things could be learned so quickly? If only he could make out the wizard's _handwriting _more easily, though...) "Could he just finish his sentence? _Please?_" Susan asked desperately.

I'M SORRY, SUSAN. IT WOULD BREAK—

"Yes, yes, yes—_**the Rules**__._"

_Whoever made them, anyway? _she grumbled inwardly.

YOU DO UNDERSTAND MY POSITION, DON'T YOU? IT'S NOT _ME_ DECIDING THIS, YOU NOW. IF I _HAD _A CHOICE—

"Don't worry, Granddad," she sighed, if only to shut him up. "I don't _blame_ you."

Susan, who, though she might not appear to be always, at least _tried _to be fair, and now, she knew, she couldn't blame Death. This realization had a terrible side effect—Susan never (well, hardly ever) got frightened; she got _angry_. And now she had nothing to be angry _at_. She found herself desperately searching for someone—_anyone_—to take the blame, but she came up empty handed. This unsettled her, and put the schoolteacher in a _fowl _mood.

Death raised his hand, and watched Marc Riddly fade. The wizard waved and smiled, not quite looking like someone who had just _died_.

_OF COURSE, HE HAS LIVED A VERY LONG LIFE, SO PERHAPS HE IS SIMPLY GLAD FOR THE REST,_ Death thought (actually, Riddly was simply glad not to have stuffy nose, sore throat, or aching back anymore, but Death wasn't used to that sort of thing so the thought never crossed his mind. Besides, his idea does sound a lot more… _poetic_, don't you think?). The anthropomorphic personification glanced around, half hoping he could just fade away with Marc and escort him the rest of the way… but no, he knew that _this_ ghost _had _to be dealt with. If it had been anyone else—_anyone_—he probably would have let it slide, but a un-dead Teatime was _not _a good thing to have running around.

COME OUT, MR. TEATIME. I KNOW YOU'RE THERE.

Teatime sighed inwardly; he'd almost hoped Death had forgotten Susan had mentioned him (why _had _she mentioned him? Couldn't she have just kept _quiet? _This all reinforced his deduction—yes, Susan was _definitely _aligned with the stars to _make him miserable_) and would let him go. Really, he shouldn't have been killed anyway, since it was all the Auditors of Reality's fault (yes, Teatime had looked up the case in the Assassins' Guild's records after he'd first become a ghost—out of curiosity, of course) that he'd died; it was against the _rules _for them to do such a thing, so everything that had resulted because of it (e.g. his death) should be _reversed_, shouldn't it?

Teatime considered arguing the point with Death, but decided that, due to previous relations, that might not be the best option at the moment.

Options. He needed _options…_

_Oh, there's one, _he thought happily, swooshing out of the ground directly behind Susan, ghost knife up against her throat the moment he appeared.

Susan, for better or for worse, had found her scapegoat.

_GET AWAY FROM ME!_

Teatime closed his eyes, allowed the last reverberations of her **Voice **to leave his mind, and pressed his knife just far enough to draw a red line of blood. Susan gasped in pain.

STEP BACK, TEATIME, a terribly cold version of Death's imposing voice echoed.

"As I see it, doing so wouldn't be to my advantage... _would it? _My understanding is that all you have to do is wave that scythe, and I'm _gone_. But all I have to do is press, and she's gone. Think about that for a while."

"Let me go, _Tea_time," Susan growled, then called out as the knife went half a centimeter deeper.

"I _have _been very tolerant up until now, Susan," he said quietly, "but I think I've reached... _the end of my rope, _so to speak."

WHERE DO YOU INTEND THIS TO GO, MR. TEATIME? WE SEEM TO BE AT A STALEMATE.

"The key word there is _seem_, sir," Teatime piped cheerfully, then continued quietly to his 'hostage'. "Step with me."

The assassin stepped to the right and popped up beside the desk littered with the recently deceased wizard's papers.

"Please grab those, Susan." Susan held very, very still, anger and a slight twinge of fear mixed on her face to form some other strong emotion. The knife slid across her neck smoothly, cutting skin as it left a trail of blood behind it. Teatime doodled idly for a few seconds with the very tip, not noticing the two or three tears sliding down Susan's cheeks, before he spoke, his eyes on whatever he happened to be drawing. "I did say _please..._"

Susan shivered before she reached to her left, groping blindly—not wanting to move her head—for Marc Riddly's notes.

"Do you have them all?" he asked.

"I think so," she replied coldly.

Teatime sighed. "I guess that'll have to do, then," he paused for half a second. "Estall phay phorum," he whispered, and disappeared—along with a very, _very _perturbed Susan Sto-Helit—in a puff of smoke.

OH, DEAR. THIS IS A VERY BIG PROB—

Of course, it was _now _that Death disintegrated for the ninth time.

*

When Susan woke up, her first thought was—

_URGH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!_

Her second thought was—

_ARGH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!_

Her third and final thought was—

_What is that smell?_

Yes, there was a very distinct smell of... of pastries. Pastries, pudding, cider, cake, cookies... in general, yummy things. Then she noticed the darkness. Yes, it was pitch black, and she really had no idea where she was.

"Are you awake, Susan?" a familiar voice asked curiously.

"YOU!" she called, sitting up straight, glaring around at the darkness. "Where _are _you?" she growled, perfectly intending to grab his curly blond hair, rip it out of his skull, and in no prettier terms beat him to a bloody pulp—ghost or no; she would _make _him bleed.

Then she noticed the ache in her neck, the dull throb. Her hand went up to it, and felt a very intricate scab on her neck.

"Over here," Teatime replied.

Susan attempted to stand, banged her head on some flat surface, and started to _crawl _in his direction.

"Where?" she asked.

"This way."

She adjusted her coarse slightly

"One more—"

Her hand touched a foot. She smirked in something that really couldn't be described as anything but malevolence and pulled back a fist, quite ready to strike and more surprised than anything when he caught her wrist on the way down.

"Susan, I do possess some degree of intelligence," he said, twisting her arm back painfully.

"Hmm—" she grunted as her arm pulled further back, his fingers digging deep into her skin. "Let me go," she said quietly, eyes skewed closed tightly.

"Let me go _who, _Susan?"

He wasn't—he _wasn't—_

"Let me go _please._"

"_Suuuu-saaaaaan...._" there it was again, that sing-song version of her name that sent chills down her spine. It was a warning, in a way. It meant 'I mean business, now. Don't play around'.

"Let me go—" No. She _wouldn't_. Not like this.

He twisted harder.

"AH!" she called, her arm turning numb from lack of circulation, tears forming at the corners of her eyes. "Let me go, _Jonathon!_" she cried desperately, "How's that? See? Please—just _stop it!_"

He released her, and she sighed, panting as she leaned back against the wall, under the shelf-like surface her head had banged against earlier. Susan was prideful, and right now, due to the terrible ache in her arm and neck, she wished she wasn't.

"See? Was that so _hard?_" Teatime asked, very much as a parent would ask a child who'd just tried broccoli for the first time.

*

Death, for reasons unknown to the universe, had rematerialized in a very familiar ballroom. With a very familiar peacock clapping to very familiar melody beside him.

_OH, DEAR_, Death said, for three reasons really:

**A: **Since he wasn't allowed in the University, he had materialized here, and now had to find Susan.

**B: **The peacock was here, and he almost didn't want to have to talk to her. He could be terrible at conversation and was certain to embarrass himself.

**C: **He couldn't fade. He _couldn't_ _disappear—_why, he didn't know, but he _couldn't_.

_OH, DEAR_, he repeated_._

"Why, if it isn't Death Himself!" the peacock called happily. Death started, wondering _how _she knew who he was...

OH. YOU ARE REFERRING TO THE COSTUME.

"Yes... and it certainly _is _wonderful. How did you have it made?" the peacock asked, glancing up and down his cloak and bones appreciatively.

UM... I'VE HAD IT FOR SO LONG, REALLY, I CAN'T REMEMBER.

"Oh, I know the feeling! I'll never know where my first ballgown came from..." she said with a dreamy smile, looking back on long-lost memories. "So your work let you go?"

Death shifted uncomfortably, twiddling his long, skeletal fingers.

IN A SENSE.

"Does it pay well? I'm sure it'd have to if it expected you to be on call every second of every day."

WELL... IT DOESN'T REALLY PAY.

"What do you mean?" the peacock asked curiously.

AT ALL.

"Oh, you work in some sort of charity?"

YOU COULD... _CALL _IT THAT.

"How lovely! It's always good to find people who care so much about human life!"

YES, Death agreed hesitantly.

*

Susan felt her left arm (the one Teatime had mutilated) gently. It was definitely bruised (she wouldn't be surprised if his fingerprints showed up in the markings) and it still hurt like heck. There was a long, awkward stretch of silence before someone finally spoke.

"And I was so… _happy_ when you finally woke up."  
"What do you mean?" she asked coldly, cradling her arm.

"It's terribly boring in here. It quite reminds me of…" he trailed off for a second, his voice growing… well, Susan didn't know quite how to describe it, but it wasn't pleasant, "_other things._"

"_What _'other things'?"

"I really don't feel like talking much about it, Susan."

"Tea—" she paused. "What were on those papers?"

"Marc Riddly's notes," Teatime said, obviously quite happy to change the topic. "They really were quite interesting." He hesitated, "…you _do_ still have them, don't you?"

"Somewhere on the floor here."

"Good."

"What was on them?"

"A few spells, notes on what he was trying to do, an explanation for current events, to-do lists—"

"Hold a few seconds, Tea—" she cut herself off. "Hold a few seconds, won't you? Did you say _an explanation for current events?_"

Teatime blinked, but Susan didn't notice in the pitch blackness.

"Yes."

"Well? What _was _it?" she prompted.

"You know how spells require knowledge of certain words?" he asked, blindly tracing on the dusty floor.

"Like the spell you said? Phay Pha Phorum, or something?"

"He wanted to change that. It's dreadfully hard to remember, so he wanted to make Ankh-Morporkian the chosen language to simplify things."

"Sounds well enough."

"It didn't work out how he had hoped."

Teatime was silent.

"Do you care to _explain…?_" Susan prompted.

"It was more powerful in some places, and less in others. For instance, the _names _of things have become much, much more powerful. Whenever someone calls something by its name, it is reinforced in the scope of things. The _Unseen_ University became _unseen_."

Susan's eyes widened as she sat a bit straighter. Things were, of all things, _starting to make sense!_

"Fourclover became a four-leafed-clover…"

"Who?" how many random men did Susan know, anyway?

"A tourist."

"You're acquaintances certainly have odd names—_Lobsang, Fourclover…_"

"…_Teatime!_" Susan added to the list sarcastically, then paused, a little surprised. "How do you know about Lobsang?"

"You mentioned him in the university. You said he has disappeared as well."

"But his name doesn't _mean _anything… unless…"

"Unless… _what?_"

"Unless he was becoming _Time_."

"I'm not sure if I understand, Susan."

"Time was his father, so when his parents wanted to take a vacation for a few hundred years he volunteered to take over his job for a while. So whenever people refer to him as _time_, or time in general, and not _Lobsang_, they are slowly reinforcing him becoming time itself, rather than a personification of it. It's almost similar to what was happening when you tried to kill the Hogfather."

_Really_. Someone trying to kill the _Hogfather? _It was just plain _insane! _Then again, Teatime had never really been sane, as far as she was concerned (or anyone, for that matter).

"How did you meet this… _Lobsang_?" Teatime asked idly.

"It really is a long, boring story."

"We're going to be stuck here for a while. I'm sure it is more interesting than blackness."

"Speaking of which, where _are _we?" she asked, attempting to change the subject.

"I think, Susan, that we are locked in a closet."

"A _closet?!_"

"I believe I said so. How did you meet this Lobsang?"

Susan sighed.

"Through a long chain of events. Why do you even care?"

"I am attempting to distract myself from my boredom. But you seem unwilling to speak about him; I take it you both are involved?"

"_NO! _Yes. Um…" Susan trailed off.

"How are your children, then?" he asked, now changing the subject.

"What children?" the teacher asked, a little confused.

"Twyla and Gawain? Rather… _charming _little things, don't you think?"

He grinned ironically in the darkness.

"They aren't _mine_."

"Really…?" he asked curiously.

"I was acting as a governess."

"I'm sorry;" he sounded a little confused, "the Duchess of Sto-Helit, a governess?"

"Is there something wrong with that?" she said defensively, as if _daring _him to say that there was.

"No; not at all. You just never cease to _fascinate _me, Susan. You are so very… _different _from normal people."

"I am _very _normal," Susan countered.

"Sometimes being different is a good thing, as with you. You are brave, strong, witty, and if anything doesn't go your way or displeases you deny it out of existence."

"Do you _admire_ me?" she said with a little confusion.

"I find you intriguing," he corrected. "Currently, I am attempting to understand your mind, but I doubt I will ever succeed…" he grinned, "That's probably why you are so interesting to watch and listen—I hardly ever know what you are going to do next."

"_Hardly?_"

"Give me _some _credit, Susan," he paused for half a second, "How is your neck?"

Her hand snapped to the tiny, intricate scabs, the ache and fiery pain still very prominent.

"Fine," now _she _paused. "What _did _you cut into my _flesh_, anyway?"

"Nothing, really," he answered evasively.

Just then, a door flew open and a terribly blinding light flooded the pantry.

"Just what do you think you two are _doing?_" an angry voice called.

Teatime, who somehow managed to stand directly in front of the person before Susan had time to blink, smiled brightly.

"Hello, my name's Teatime…"

The man's face tightened as he felt the knife at his side.

"…what's yours?"

*

"Hmm…" the peacock said thoughtfully, "are you a member of the Rescue Warriors?"

NO, Death answered. Of course, this game really wasn't _fair (_as who could possibly guess he was _Death?_), but she had insisted. IS YOUR NAME PENELOPE?

"No. Do you run a food drive?"

NO. IS YOUR NAME PEARL?

"No. Are you some sort of a… secret agent?" she guessed wildly.

_NO! _IS YOUR NAME PAULLINA?

"Just because I came as a peacock doesn't mean my name begins with 'P'!" she laughed.

Oh. So _that's _why Death had had the urge to guess things beginning with 'P'…

PERSEPHONE, PERHAPS? he guessed randomly. Oh, no! That began with a 'P' too, didn't it?

"Yes!" she said excitedly. "Yes, you have it. My name is Persephone Pearle," she curtsied, "At your service. And, I believe, you owe me a dance."

*

"Tea—" URGH! Why did she keep doing that? "Jonathon," she settled with, "What do you think you are _doing?!_"

"I believe," he said, keeping his eyes on the terrified, middle-aged, and well dressed man before them, "I am keeping us out of trouble."

Susan put her hand on his knife-arm, staring at his face seriously—rather infuriated that he wouldn't look at her, but she had to get on his good side (if he had one). She had to get him to put the darn thing down.

"Put the knife down. _Now_."

"But _Susan—_"

"_Now._"

He sighed, smiled at the man before him, and lowered the blade.

"You owe me later, Susan," he said quietly, entering the closet and getting on his knees as he searched around.

The man glanced at Death's granddaughter with a look of sheer terror.

"Thank you?" he squeaked, not sure exactly _what _he should say.

"Um… you're welcome. I'd advise you to get out of here as soon as you can, though," she glanced behind her nervously, "He's really… _unpredictable_."

The man nodded, and dashed away as quickly as he could.

"I've found them!" Teatime said, somehow standing right next to her triumphantly, Riddly's papers in his right hand. "So, where are we?"

"What?"

"Susan, you can be incredibly _thick._"

"_What _do you _mean?_" she said, her voice rising a tiny notch.

"The reason I… _spoke _with that man was to determine our location. I _assumed _you would be _intelligent _enough to think to _ask _yourself, but it _seems _I've overestimated your mental _cap__abilities_."

Susan had a glare that could burn ice.

Teatime had a stare that could freeze fire.

They stood there, both perturbed with the other beyond imagining, Susan clutching her still-bruised wrist and Teatime Riddly's papers, for who knew how long. Until Teatime cocked his head.

"Do you hear that?" he asked curiously.

Music echoed into the room (which was actually a kitchen, a rather messy one at that) from the right. They glanced that direction to see a rather plain, unobtrusive door, in a small, unobtrusive corner, colored a rather dull, unobtrusive shade of tan. But the music that flowed through that door was anything but unobtrusive; it was blaring, bold, and filled with grandeur.

"What's that coming from...?" Susan wondered aloud, wandering over to the door, Teatime a step behind her. She opened the door slowly, peaking through the small crack along with the assassin.

Outside they saw a huge, brilliant and grand masquerade, filled with all sorts of people dancing around and twirling. The music was almost deafening, and Susan slammed the door shut.

"Of all the places to appear, we show up in a closet, during a _masquerade?_" she said, her voice sounding in pain.

"The problem being...?"

"A _closet!? _A _masquerade!?_"

"Well, Susan? Do you intend to stay in this kitchen until the end of the dance?" She really looked like she did. Teatime glanced downwards with his mismatched eyes thoughtfully, then glanced up. "_Alone with me?_"

Susan opened the door and stepped outside. Teatime smirked; maybe he _was _starting to figure her out.


	6. Big Coincidence

**Author's Notes:**** Sorry it's taken me so long to get this out—not only am I having troubles figuring out **_**what **_**to write (you can thank my sister that it's even up **_**now**_**—I'd still be on the first paragraph if it wasn't for her wonderful suggestions), but I've been terribly busy as well. This one came out a bit short, but I hope you find it interesting anyway. We're getting closer to the… er, shall we say 'good part', but I don't think anything **_**really **_**romantic will happen between Susan and Teatime for another couple chapters. Thanks again to my wonderful reviewers! You **_**make my day!**_

**Well, here you are—things disappear, Teatime gets worried, and Susan knocks out some swordsmen. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: **The Discworld belongs to Terry Pratchett. I don't mean to offend anyone or to make any copyright infringements—I just want to see more of Teatime, Susan, and Death interacting together, and the quickest, most reliable way to do that is to _write it myself._

Chapter Six

Big Coincidence

Susan and Teatime stood out like sore thumbs in their black (and white, in Susan's case) attire against all the bright colors. Yes, it was a wild fray, with leaps, twirls, swirling skirts and legs flying... almost chaotic, but if one watched you could see a subtle rhythm, a hidden overall order that governed it all.

"Is that Death?" the assassin asked in a surprised voice. Susan followed his gaze to see a form that, quite surprisingly, looked very much like her grandfather. She blinked a couple times, then shook her head.

"No."

"Are you sure? He really—"

"My _grandfather _doesn't dance. And he most certainly wouldn't be doing so right after _you _just disappeared with me. It's a very good costume; nothing more," she said definitely, nodding her head to reassure herself.

"But it if _is—_"

Susan laughed slightly.

"That would be just your luck, wouldn't it? To disappear in hopes of getting _away _from him, only to appear in the place he happens to be _at. _Well, lucky you; Death _isn't _here."

He shifted slightly, looking a little uncomfortable. Susan had only seen him like this (though at a much larger scale) three years ago when she had played psychologist-gone-bad. He actually looked a little... afraid.

"What is it, Teatime?"

He didn't even notice her mispronounce his name. She was sure of it. By golly, what was _wrong _with him?

"I'm fine, Susan," he said quietly.

"Darn, I was hoping you'd be miserable," she said sarcastically, "No, I don't care how you're _feeling. _I wanted to know what you were _thinking_ about in that twisted mind of yours."

"Nothing."

Susan's eyes narrowed.

"You're lying."

"No, I'm not. I really am thinking about _nothing_."

"You look very thoughtful to me, Teatime—what are you smiling about?" she asked suspiciously. "You like me calling you _Teatime _now, do you?"

He almost grinned in that funny way of his.

"Nothing."

And Jonathon Teatime had the pure _nerve _of turning away and walking off. Susan almost wanted to chase after him and demand an answer, but decided that _maybe _she and a crazed assassin parting ways was a _good_ thing. Susan sighed, spotted him in the crowd easily enough, and decided she could keep an eye on him until she or he left while she asked whoever was pretending to be Death where he got his costume.

A few seconds later, Teatime did the exact same thing. Only he decided to _avoid _Death at all costs, as he still wasn't quite sure Susan was correct—or even telling the truth. In general, Teatime always knew when someone was lying, but Death's Granddaughter, in near every way, was an exception to the rule. He didn't like to take chances he wasn't sure of.

Then again, he didn't like avoiding things when he didn't have to.

And he was _terribly _curious.

So, letting his curiosity get the better of him (and knowing full well he was doing it) he slid into the walls and followed Susan on her path to Death—the personification, not the state of being of course.

*

I REALLY AM DREADFULLY SORRY, Death apologized profusely.

"It's perfectly fine," the peacock said, laughing at his obvious distress. "Everyone steps on someone's toes at some point."

BUT IT WAS VERY _HARD_.

"I'll agree with you there," she said with a nod. "Look, why don't we go get some punch or something? I see some over in the corner."

OF COURSE.

As they moved across the ballroom to the unobtrusive, hardly noticeable corner with a table and punch-bowl Death got the distinct feeling that someone was following him. It strengthened as the peacock poured herself a glass of punch, and climaxed when she said—

"Oh, who's that?"

Death turned around quickly, noticing—of all things!—his granddaughter walking towards him.

"No, no, _no! _You are _not _my grandfather!" she mumbled.

SUSAN! he called happily. I'M SO GLAD YOU'RE ALRIGHT.

"You looked _terribly _worried."

"Hello, Miss," the peacock said, offering a hand to Susan. "I don't believe we've met. I'm Persephone. You have a wonderful grandfather."

"Who are you?" Susan blinked.

"I'm Persephone," the peacock repeated. "You are...?" she prompted.

"Susan," she said quickly.

"By and by, how did you recognize your grandfather?"

"What do you mean?" she asked in confusion.

"Does he wear the costume often?" Persephone tried.

"Oh. _That... _Um, yes. He wears it very often."

Death shifted uncomfortably as the peacock examined Susan. Her brows furrowed after a couple seconds.

"What is teh-ah-tim-eh?"

"What did you say?!" Susan said, shock evident on her face. "Where did you hear that?"

"On your neck..." the peacock pointed out, slightly confused.

Susan's hand snapped to the intricate scabs.

HE WROTE _TEATIME _ON MY NECK?! she screeched angrily—and would have gotten a lot of odd glances, if the music hadn't been so loud. Of course, her **Voice **wasn't exactly... _sound_, but

the dancers didn't know that, did they?

"No," she answered, a little shaken but otherwise unphased by Susan's imposing outburst, "it clearly says T-E-H-dash-A-H-dash-T-I-M-dash-E-H... unless _that's _pronounced teatime...?"

"It's _pronounced_," Susan growled as she touched the tiny writing gently, "'you are so dead'."

Quite literally, actually. Teatime _was _a ghost, after all.

SPEAKING OF WHICH, SUSAN, WHERE IS HE NOW?

"Where is who?" the peacock asked.

"I'm..." Susan glanced through the crowd. She'd _seen _him only a couple minutes before... and then forgotten to watch him.

_Idiot! _she thought angrily.

"I _did _see him a moment ago."

OH, DEAR.

"I really did!"

*

Actually, Teatime was fairly near—inside a wall perhaps, but near never the less. Near and watching, with curiosity and amusement. Susan could be so funny when she didn't want to be.

"Excuse me, but to whom are you referring?" the peacock asked.

Susan took a deep breath.

"A ghost assassin named Teatime."

Teatime flinched in the wall as she distorted his name.

The peacock blinked.

"_What?_"

Some random dialogue took place afterwards—Teatime listened intently, but was more interested in the footsteps. He glanced through the wall and over a little to the right, to see a masked man walking towards them. He was dressed in scarlet and a matching mask going down to his nose. Teatime wouldn't have thought twice about the man, if it weren't for the distinctly styled sword that hung from his hip—and it _wasn't _just for show.  
_  
This is most... coincidental, _he thought speculatively. _Of all the places—Mordred's keep. Let's see how they handle it, then._

The man in scarlet walked up to the punch bowl, and grabbed himself a glass. Susan and Death immediately stopped talking.

"What? What is it?" the peacock asked.

"Yes? _What _is it?" the man in scarlet said, looking up.

A few seconds later his sword went straight through Death. The women's eyes turned to the blade inside Death's stomach, where no blood poured—it hadn't _stabbed _him, it'd gone_ through _him (just like the poker that had eventually stabbed Teatime. He didn't much like thinking about that—it'd _hurt_). The man glanced at his sword and started to pull it out, but Susan hit him on the head with her fists clasped together and smiled smally as he collapsed. What Death's granddaughter _didn't _realize was that there were five other men coming up behind them.

The next bit happened in a sort of slow motion, for Teatime. The first millisecond he was disappointed (Susan Sto-Helit, falling for such a cheap trick as distraction? He'd never have thought), the second millisecond curious (would she notice them? Could she stop them if she didn't?), and the third he felt something he hadn't felt in a long, long, long, _long_ time. There was no mistaking it, though: _worry _(for someone other than himself). Maybe if he had been someone else it would have frightened him, but Teatime feared nothing but boredom, so he was only confused and taken aback when the unpleasant feeling shot through his chest. It had been so long that he'd almost forgotten what it felt like—and then he'd really only felt it for someone he considered a part of himself, so he almost thought it didn't count.

For a thirty-sixth of a second, he considered analyzing the sensation, going to its core so he could figure out what was going on and dismiss it accordingly. But, he realized, there wasn't enough time for a full investigation, and Teatime hated doing things by halves. So he acted—acted on the one thing that he felt needed to be done.

The assassin stepped forwards out of the wall—somehow popping up _behind _the scarlet-clad man whose sword was raised over Susan—and stabbed him in the back (no, Teatime held no reservations about such things).

"Hello," he said cheerfully, as the other men swerved towards him, confusion written plainly on their faces. "My name's Teatime," he stabbed the one nearest to him, pleased to see a couple more fall victim to Susan as Death disintegrated into tiny flakes of dust. "...what's yours?" he finished as he killed the last one, casting a friendly smile Susan's way.

"Teatime," she said, her face furrowed in confusion as she stepped over random bodies up to him. "What are you doing?"

He cocked his head thoughtfully.

"Where's Death?"

"He's right th—" Susan started, turning behind her. "Granddad?!" Death's granddaughter turned accusingly to the assassin. "What did you do to him!?"

He sighed.

"I just saved your life, Susan. Some people would be showing some..." he looked up at her, emphasizing the next word, "_gratitude_."

"I could have handled it myself," she said, meeting his gaze coldly. "Why _did _you..." Susan really didn't want to use the words 'save' or 'help' at the moment, "...attack them?"

"You're real," he said plainly.

"Yes," Susan said, her eyes moving from his gaze slightly, "you'd generally assume that."

"Reall_er_," he corrected himself, his black and white eyes attempting to meet hers. "I'd always seen things... _differently _than other people. But _I'm _different from other people, in a way I can't quite put to words. And in that way you are as well. I can see into you, and you are layered. There is more to you than meets the eye. You think, you feel, in the most complex ways and—and..." he seemed to be trying to find the correct words, "...on the entire Disc I've never found anyone like you. If you died, I'd never find out what it is that makes you different. And I don't like... _unanswered questions_."

"_What?_" Susan blinked.

Teatime closed his eyes in exasperation, his face screwing up slightly.

"Where'd the peacock go?" he asked, eyes still shut.

Susan half wondered where he kept his knife, but decided trying to disarm him would be a bad idea. Then she glanced around her for the peacock. She was _gone_.

"I... I don't know."

"So the peacock has… _flown the coup, _and Death has disappeared into a cloud of dust. _Hmm._"

Susan put a hand to her head.

"No, oh no..." she plopped down on the punch table. "This is just wonderful. _Wonderful_. Grand, even! Things are going _just—_"

"Suuuuuuuuuu-saaaaaaaaaan," he sang quietly in her ear. She stopped talking and lifted her head up abruptly in shock, shivering slightly as her eyes popped open. "I think I've heard enough."

She stood, and began to pace among the scarlet figures.

"Why did no one _notice _anything?" she said, gesturing to the bodies around her as she shook off the shivers lingering inside. "This—this should have been calling glances."

"It's a type of spell--a glamoure," Teatime said, reaching out and touching thin air. "This corner—no one will see it, save out of the corner of their eye, and no one will notice anything in or near it." Susan opened her mouth. "Before you ask, Susan, the reason we noticed it was that I am a ghost, you are Death's grandchild, Death is Death, and as for the peacock..." he smiled wryly. "She's something even worse than all three of us combined."

"What do you mean?" Susan asked.

"She's a journalist," he replied cheerfully, a smile taking the corners of his lips.

**Author's Notes (CONTINUED!):**** The more reviews I get, the faster I write!!! And I have a cold, and reviews are like medicine to me. So the more reviews, the more chapters, the quicker I get better--everyone's happy!**


	7. Slowly, Very Slowly

**Author's Notes:**** Thanks so much for wishing me well and for all of your awesome reviews, everybody. The words are just flying out of me (at last!), and I expect chapters to come quickly for the next few days. I'm still sick, but all your kind thoughts really bring me up. I'm sure I'll be better in no time.**

**Here you go—no one speaks in this chapter besides Susan and Teatime, and they duel, sort papers, and argue about pointless details to the bitter end!**

**Disclaimer: **The Discworld comes from the brilliant mind of Terry Pratchett—may he write many more in his time (preferably ones with Susan, Death and Teatime. I'm planning on writing him a letter, but I just don't know where I can find his email or home address)!

Chapter Seven

Slowly—Very Slowly

"A _journalist?!_" Susan called, almost stepping backwards from surprise. "Oh, _no._"

Journalists _always_ had their eyes peeled, and they were _always _ready to believe _anything _if a story would come of it. It was for that reason that journalists could see things that were really there (such as a corner hidden by a glamoure).

"How do you know?" she asked.

"I've seen her before."

"Where?"

"In other situations."

"_She_ didn't know who _you _were."

"I never said that she saw _me,_" he said smoothly.

"So you're being _cryptic_, are you?"

Teatime cocked his head.

"Perhaps," he said, then grinned. Susan promptly rolled her eyes.

"But was that why they came after us? Because she's a _journalist? _ And who _are _those men?" she paused, "Do you even know?"

"I believe you are right, Susan, as I doubt they were expecting any of us to be here. And as for who they are," he paused, meeting her eyes, "yes, I know. They work for a man called Mordred."

"And how do you know that?"

"Remember Marc Riddly?"

"_Yes_, we just left him, actually," she said sarcastically.

"Mordred hired me to assassinate him."

"Why would did he want Riddly dead?" she asked curiously.

"I don't know, Susan. If assassins started asking people _why _people wanted people _dead _there would be a lot less assassins out there. Employed ones, anyhow."

"Maybe you should start asking, then," she dryly. "But go on."

Teatime bent down and picked up a blade from one of the bodies, holding it up to his face. It was eerily familiar, seeing him hold a sword so.

"I recognized the hilt," he said, tossing the blade to his other hand as he caught it with ease. "When I first came here looking for work—this is his keep, in case you didn't know."

Now he was attempting to balance the hilt on his first finger. It didn't look very safe (even if he was doing remarkably well), and Susan couldn't help but flinch.

"Stop doing that, will you?"

He tossed the sword into the air and caught it, holding it properly once more.

"If you insist," he said. "Can you use one?"

"One what?" she asked.

"A _sword_, Susan. From what I've seen of your poker-wielding you are very good—but can you use a _sword?_"

"Of course I can. My mother and father raised me to be sensible—it'd be stupid not to learn swordplay when you have the resources to do so. Can _you?_"

Teatime blinked, as if the question had never occurred to him, then reached down and tossed her a sword. Susan's eyes widened and she just barely caught it. She was about to yell at him for tossing a sharp weapon at her, but didn't have a chance.

"Why don't you find out?" he asked, dancing backwards as he lifted the sword in a ready stance.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me. We don't have time for—"

Teatime had already lunged at her. She parried instinctively, but he twisted his blade around hers and almost (_almost, _mind you) disarmed her—he was much, much stronger than he looked. Slightly angry, Susan hacked at him skillfully, keeping her body guarded to the best of her ability. He grinned—this was all some wonderful game to him, wasn't it?—and blocked her blow. But Susan used the ricochet, the force of her weapon hitting his, to snap her arm back and flip the blade towards his stomach.

She almost hit him, too.

Teatime danced back, lowering his sword to stop her. Susan ground her teeth as she came at him again. For a good three minutes they dueled, both growing more and more impressed by the other's skill. Well, at least Teatime was. Susan was just getting angrier and angrier—she didn't often find a person she couldn't beat, and gosh darnnit she was getting tired of being over powered by _Teh-ah-tim-eh_.

A hand instinctively touched her neck where the letters were… _engraved_. She nearly growled and came down on him even harder.

Teatime, on the other hand, was extremely enjoying the exhilaration; whereas Susan was infuriated by his skill, he was invigorated by hers. He hardly ever came by someone he couldn't beat easily, and it was nice to have a challenge. Teatime _loved _a challenge.

"Where did you learn this?!" Susan gasped, her breathing was beginning to become heavy.

"The Guild taught me many things," he replied smoothly. How he kept _his _breath, she would never know.

"Is that where you learned to use that knife of yours?" she asked, hacking from up high.

"No," he said, blocking skillfully. He shoved her back with some of his mysterious strength, and lowered his sword. "I'm done for now, Susan."

He hadn't quite finished the words when Susan's sword came crashing down through him, hacking him in two with a terrible _crunching _sound as the blade slammed into the floor. Or it _would_ have hacked in two, had he not been a ghost. It reminded him of the time he had tried to kill _her _in the Toothfairy's Castle and Death's sword had gone straight through her… ah, good memories.

Except for the fact that he had _failed_. Teatime felt a slight burst of anger going through him and almost felt like kicking something. He didn't often get agitated, but be _hated_ to disappoint himself more than almost anything in the world. And doing so made him _angry_.

"Tit for tat, I suppose," Teatime shrugged, glancing at the sword Susan had used, now buried deep into the wood floor. "You did know it would go through me?" he asked absently.

"I _knew_," Susan said, "whether I remembered at that second or not is up to your imagination. But please, don't share it with me. Whatever goes on in that head of yours is and always will be a mystery to me—_and I_ _like it that way_."

"Huh," he cocked his head thoughtfully, then raised his eyebrows dismissively. "Come on, Susan. We'd best hurry."

"Hurry and do _what? _My grandfather's gone, a journalist is on the loose, people are disappearing randomly and I've no idea what to do! Are you telling me that you have a plan of some sort?"

"Mordred hired me to kill Marc Riddly. I failed in that—"

"He seems pretty dead to me," Susan mumbled.

"—but since he doesn't know that, I'm going to collect my payment. I don't like taking credit for things I didn't do—where's the fun in that?" he paused, "—but I _want _my body back. Being a ghost isn't all..._ fun and games_."

"And _why _would I want to help you?" she asked, crossing her arms.

"Several reasons. A, if I am alive again you have a chance to kill me."

"You're starting out well," Susan said, nodding. "Let's see if you can pull through."

"B, Mr. Riddly used to work for Mordred. He even has an office here—that is still filled with his notes. Perhaps something there will show how to _un_do his spell."

"You're beginning to win me over, Teatime."

He smiled at how she mispronounced his name, glancing at her neck.

"Have you had a chance to look in the mirror?"

"No, but someone mentioned it, and I'd hit you right now if I thought you wouldn't catch me," she said matter-of-factly.

"Mentally noted; you've hit me," he said with a nod.

"Good. Go on, then?" Susan said, moving her hands to her hips.

"That's all I have, Susan."

"But why do you _want _me to come with you?"

"For the same reason I told you earlier. I'm still trying to figure you out, Susan. It's terribly hard, and I'm terribly curious."

Susan nodded.

"Fine. If coming with you means I get to see Marc Riddly's notes, _and _I get a chance to kill you, I'll do it. But, I don't want any more of…" she waved her hand around the "_teh-ah-tim-eh_"scrawled her neck, "_this _sort of thing. Deal?"

"We'll see," he said with a smile. "Shall we dance?"

"_What?_"

The question was so off topic, so out there, and so plain _wrong _that it caught Susan completely off guard.

"I don't fancy making my way through _that _crowd. If we dance, we'll move much more quickly."

"No. Let's walk and push our way through," Susan said nervously.

Teatime cocked his head. There was more to that 'no' than normal-Susan-grouchiness. Curious as ever, he decided to pursue it.

"What is it, Susan?" he asked softly.

"What do you mean?" she said, shivered, then got a little hostile. Yes, there was most _definitely_ more to this.

"Can you dance?"

"Of course I can! I'm a duchess, I—"

"You can't, _can you?_"

She bit her lip.

"All those lessons on swordplay, and you _never learned to dance?_"

"Which do _you _think is more useful?" she said, jutting out her chin stubbornly. "Prancing around in big skirts or defending your life?"

He smiled.

"There's a first time for everything, _isn't there?_"

Teatime took one of her hands, grabbed her waist and stepped from the corner. Susan's eyes widened for half a second before she looked up at him and _glared._

"Let. Go. Of. Me. Now," she said, very, very slowly.

"Just follow; it isn't very hard," he replied, stepping into the music as one would step onto a merry-go-round—you had to time it just right, but somehow it was simple for him.

"They teach _dancing _in the Assassins' Guild?" Susan asked, momentarily forgetting her anger in her surprise to find that Teatime wasn't half-bad at dancing (much better than her, at the very least—grace had never been one of her strong-suits).

"No," he answered, glancing away. Susan narrowed her eyes.

"Where did you learn it, then? Who did you practice with?"

The music sped up and Teatime took advantage of the change in tempo to twirl her around dizzyingly and speed up their steps across the room to such a degree that they couldn't speak (they couldn't really breathe either, but he didn't mind much if it meant avoiding the question).

They were heading for the stairs far off in the center of the huge dance-floor. They led up to a balcony of sorts, spreading left and right and opening to a long hall further in. The whole building seemed much more like a palace than a keep, but one could not judge things by how they first seemed—Susan knew that well.

They reached the stairs and Teatime turned from her quickly, starting to climb the steps with an almost inhuman speed and fluidity. No, it was no surprise that he was a good dancer; he possessed a certain _grace _in his every movement that was impossible to find in any other human. It was, for Susan, almost impossible to believe that he _was _fully human—but perhaps that was what gave him such abilities. He was plainly human, and had to create all the advantages he had from scratch, so he used belief to perfect his natural talents (e.g. his grace, his knife).

_What would he be like_, Susan wondered thoughtfully as she followed him up the steps, _if he wasn't stark-raving-mad?_

"Slow down, Teatime," she called, clambering up the steps after him.

"Teh-ah-tim-eh," he said automatically, not bothering to turn around or slow his pace. Susan mockingly mouthed the syllables as he said them, surprised by how good it made her feel. She rolled her eyes quickly before continuing.

"Fine then, _Mr. Teatime_, please slow down," she said, for the first time in her life saying his name correctly.

Now he stopped and turned partway around with a small half smile on the corner of his lips.

"What did you say?"

"_I said_, 'fine then, Mr. Teatime, please slow down,'" she answered. Teatime bowed low, grinning all the while.

"Most certainly, Miss Sto-Helit," he said, and slowed to walk beside her, a new spring in his step.

_Perhaps_, she thought, _I should try that more often._

She glanced at his beaming, boyish face, and barely held back a laugh as they stepped into the long hall directly before the stairs. Well, almost barely. A small smile and burst of air did escape. Teatime glanced at her curiously.

"What are you smiling at?" he asked.

"You look very happy," Susan said speculatively.

He cocked his head thoughtfully, taking into account everything he knew about Susan and himself in the hopes of composing an example. Finally, he had it.

"Imagine if someone saw you for what you were, and didn't flinch," he tried. "Every inch of you—human, Death, and whatever else you happen to be. On a much smaller scale, that's how I feel about my name. The only time someone ever got it right was..." he grinned, "well, when I died."

"Granddad sees me for what I am. And so does Albert. And Lobsang."

_Lobsang. What kind of a _name _is 'Lobsang'?_ he thought for the third time, making a sour face as he stared straight ahead.

"Then you know how I feel," he said coolly, not moving his gaze.

Either side of the hall was lined with plain wooden doors. The walls were stone, and it looked much more... _keep-like _than it had before. A couple minutes passed before Teatime stepped to the side and popped up all the way across the width of hall, his ear pressed against one of the doors (very careful not to go through it). Susan walked up to him and listened herself.

"I don't hear anything," she whispered.

"Shh," the assassin replied, a finger to his lips.

"Is this Riddly's office?" she asked, her voice barely a breath.

"SHH!" he said, a little more harshly but not a notch louder. His eyes widened and flicked back and forth. Then he grabbed Susan's wrist and dragged her through the wall as quickly as he could. They'd just reached the inside of the room when two men in scarlet walked out, not bothering to look behind them as they made their way down the hall. 

"What were they saying?" Susan asked once they were no longer in sight (or earshot).

"They were wondering why the others they sent to kill the journalist and her companions weren't back yet," Teatime answered.

"I guess they'll be wondering for a while," Susan said as she glanced around the room. There was a desk, a quill, and ink in the center of the chamber. Bookshelves covered practically every section of the walls, and a window on the opposite side of the room let in the dim light of sunset.

And papers. Papers were strewn _everywhere—_on the floor, on the desk, on the bookshelves, in the books (the edges of the pages could be seen poking out of the uniform pieces of parchment actually part of the books)... even on the chairs on either side of the desk. Susan lifted one from the floor, looking it over. Teatime peered over her shoulder. Every square quarter-inch was covered in tiny, messy handwriting. Edge to edge (both sides) was _swarming _with the spidery letters, filling up the tiniest bit of spare space. Susan glanced around the room and rolled her eyes.

"Well, this should be just lovely," she said, then turned to Teatime, who jumped back slightly from her shoulder in surprise.

_Good,_ she thought with a satisfactory smile.

"I take it this is Riddly's office?" she asked.

Teatime nodded.

"And these are his notes?"

Teatime nodded.

"You can read, can't you?"

Now Teatime just glared.

"Good; let's get to work then... this is going to be a _long _while," she added quietly.

*

The first step was gathering all the papers. Susan just piled them up, but ten minutes into the process she found out that Teatime had counted every last one that he had gathered and was a little disappointed that she hadn't as well.

"You really don't know how many you have?"

"_Yes, _ I don't. You really _do?_"

"One hundred seventy four," he said matter-of-factly.

Susan had blinked, and they had continued.

The second step was organizing them. Since it would take far too long to read them and sort them accordingly, they only read the first few words and placed them in separate piles according to that. They ended up with four categories:

**ONE:** Papers beginning with "The process of undoing..."

**TWO:** Papers beginning with "The problem is/of/will be..."

**THREE: **Papers beginning with "If..."

**FOUR: **Papers beginning with other (or illegible) writing.

Strangely enough, the fourth pile grew larger and larger in size, while the others remained relatively small.

About an hour later they actually began to read them. Fortunately, in a couple drawers in the desk was some _blank _parchment (it was a great relief to their swimming heads to see the lack of writing), and they used that for taking notes on Riddly's notes. Susan was actually rather glad to have Teatime's help, as he was _almost _as fast a reader as she, and could quickly deduce which information was valuable and which wasn't.

*

(Approximately four to six hours later)

"Teatime," she said sleepily, "I think we've done enough. Really, there must be a good amount of..." she started to nod off but caught herself, "of information in ournotes to deduce something tomorrow. Let's... let's get some rest for now. I'm so tired and I think if I read another item I'll... I'll..."

_When Susan can't find any words, _Teatime thought, _it's time to stop._

He grinned at her.

"I'll agree, then. We can look over our notes tomorrow."

"You don't even look tired," she moaned in amazement.

"I decided to stop looking tired a long time ago."

"But you still _are...?_" she asked groggily.

"I'll leave that to your..." his black eye twinkled darkly, "_imagination_. Goodnight, Susan," he said, and laid down peacefully on the stone floor.

Susan, on the other hand, was having a harder time. She was exhausted, but couldn't help glancing over her shoulder every few seconds in Teatime's direction. Eventually she rolled all the way across the room, then turned so she could keep her eyes on him without discomfort. She just couldn't fall asleep with him _there_. He made her feel... unsafe. Like he was going to wake up in the middle of the night and slit her throat. It wouldn't even s_urprise _her if he did. Still, when she looked over at him sleeping peacefully she couldn't help but hold back a laugh.

_Why?_

It was the curls, she decided. He looked like a little boy with them—like Gawain did when he was asleep—, not to mention his childish face. No mismatched eyes, no cold, blank stare... No, he looked so innocent and peaceful... _until _he woke up.

_Yes, _she decided, _**just like **__Gawain_. She paused in her train of thought for a few seconds. _Only evil. And psychotic. And blond. And fully grown. And evil. And..._ Susan continued to mentally check off differences between Gawain and Teatime as you or I would count sheep, while Teatime lay awake as well (even if appeared to be sleeping), only _he _was thinking of very different things.

_I wonder_, he thought speculatively, _if I could kill her...?_

He'd tried before, and failed—in fact, she had actually killed _him_. That was probably one of the reasons he found her so intriguing; many, many people had_ tried _to kill him, but only she had succeeded, and, quite frankly, that impressed him.

But would he be able to kill her _now_, he wondered? Would she notice if he stood? Was she even awake? Would he be able to do it quietly? Who would notice afterwards? Did she expect him to try something like that? Would she be surprised?

Not that he was planning to; no, Teatime had been quite honest when he'd told Susan that he wanted to figure her out, but nothing helped him to sleep like a hypothetical murder (planning an _actual_ one got him too excited). It gave him something to ponder, something to keep his brilliantly broken mind busy until he fell asleep. Something to check all possible outcomes on. Something to be curious about. Strangely enough, however, Teatime was having a hard time focusing on his hypothetical homicide.

Teatime opened his eyes slowly in the darkness. They were already adjusted to the dim moonlight that seeped through the window, and he could make out the shapes in the room very clearly. Susan was trying to sleep, and not very successfully. She kept tossing over and grumbling. Strange; he could have sworn that she had been a lot closer before. Perhaps she was frightened. He supposed that made sense; he had, after all, attempted to kill the Hogfather, her grandfather, one of her charges, and _her _on their last meeting, so he shouldn't be surprised.

But he did hope she'd had as much _fun _with him as he'd had with her—whether fighting with the sword(/poker), or dancing in the ballroom, or bantering in the Unseen University, or being stuck in a closet, or, most particularly, looking through and sorting Marc Riddly's notes together.

On second thought, _that _had been terribly boring—but her company and outlook had been wonderful. She actually hadn't been _completely _hostile, and he was surprised by how nice that was. A non-hostile Susan... he hadn't thought that was _possible _before.

Teatime watched as Susan stood, dusted off her skirt and walked up to one of the bookshelves. She scanned the titles awkwardly for a few seconds, before huffing as she realized (or at least as he assumed she realized) she couldn't read a thing in this darkness.

"Just _grand,_" she said angrily, crossing her arms. "I'm so, so tired, I can't fall asleep, I can't even _read..._"

She marched over to the window and stared at the moon, taking in a deep breath of the fresh night air. It smelled sweet and cool, clearing out her mind.

"What are you thinking about?" Teatime asked over her shoulder. Susan jumped around, ready to scream, but he covered her mouth until she quieted.

"You could have _said _something," she said grouchily as his hand slid away. "You surprised me."

"I _frightened _you."

"You _surprised _me."

"Frightened."

"Surprised."

"Frightened!"

"_Surprised!_"

"_Frightened!_"

Susan rolled her eyes. He just didn't give up, did he? He'd had the last say the last time they'd argued like that as well, hadn't he? When he'd accused her of killing the Hogfather to confuse Banjo. Poor Banjo... the kindly (if somewhat dimwitted) stand-in Toothfairy. It'd been a while since she'd checked in on him. She'd should probably say hello to him next time she—

"You didn't answer my question, Susan."

"What question?"

"What are you thinking about?"

"Banjo, the Toothfairy's castle, the time I first met you—"

He grinned at her, his eyes—especially the black one—flashing as the moonlight hit them. He looked terribly frightening, but somehow childish at the same time. It was an odd combination.

"The second I saw you that first day I knew you'd be special, Susan Sto-Helit," Teatime said.

"How so? I've learned not to trust appearances," she countered.

"_No_," he said, rather taken aback as he shook his head, "it wasn't your _appearance _that made me think that. It was the way you _wore _it. _Anyone _can look _anyway_, but _you _made it special—your posture, the way you held your head, the way your fingers twitched, the way your hair floated around your face, the way you met my eyes and didn't flinch," he cocked his head, "...at first, anyway. What was _your _first impression of _me?_"

" 'Oh god help me' ," she replied plainly.

"Good." He took her wrist and pulled her away from the window. "I know you're tired, Susan. We should try to sleep again," he hesitated, "I promise I won't hurt you, if that helps."

"How do I know that?"

"If I wanted to kill you, why didn't I just now, when I 'surprised' you?"

He still hadn't let go of her wrist.

"That's a point," she said quietly.

"Sleep well, Susan," Teatime said, slowly releasing her arm as he slid to the ground. Susan sat beside him.

"You really are one of the most..._ unique _people I've ever met, Teatime."

"Thank you."

"...and one of the craziest."

He cocked his head.

"At least I make a strong impression."

"That you do," she added, before lying down to sleep.

And this time, they both slept peacefully.


	8. Hands

Chapter Eight

Hands

"Good morning, Susan," Teatime said cheerfully.

Susan's eyes snapped open to see his face probably three inches from hers, grinning broadly. She pursed her lips.

"_Hi,_" she said dryly, glancing back and forth in confusion.

Teatime practically leaped back, at some point grabbing her elbow and lifting her with him to a standing position. How he'd gone from leaning over her to standing in half a second she'd never know.

The sun shown brightly through the window. The chilly breeze blew within and swirled throughout the room as it hit the walls and other objects. She shivered.

"Are you cold?"

"I like the cold," she said, walking over to and sitting by their notes on the desk. She started to shuffle through them.

"Good."

"Why's that?" she asked as she glanced up from the papers. She almost jumped when she saw him sitting across from her. _Almost. _This sort of thing was common when you were with Teatime, and somehow being with Teatime was beginning to get... familiar. Strange, how that happened.

_A little scary, too_, Susan thought.

"I do too," he replied, then glanced apprehensively at their notes before looking back at her. "Do we have to read through them all?"

"Unfortunately, I can't remember much from our research. I was half asleep half the time. So yes," she said, flipping through them absent mindedly, "we have to look through them."

"Very well then..." he sighed, grabbing a stack of parchment. "Let's hurry through this."

Very quickly the two of them compared each other's notes. It was dull, but both were helpful and open minded and the process wasn't _quite _as boring as they had thought it would be.

"So before he could write the spell, he had to write a way to _un_do it," Susan said (she had thought it would be a good idea to discuss what they had figured out once they had finished—just to embed it in their minds. Teatime didn't think it'd be necessary, but Susan had countered with 'We all don't have picture perfect memories, Teatime'). "...That's part of the wizarding regulation, right?"

"Technically, yes," Teatime said absently, then smiled smally as he continued, "I think he's the only wizard in existence ever to follow it, though."

"Probably," Susan agreed with a dry nod. "So he was starting the spell that caused this whole problem when he was working here, and figured out a way to undo it. Apparently that 'way' involves a wizard saying—in Ankh-Morporkian—'may all spells be spoken in the absolute nonsense that they were before' with some powerful magical item while waving a wand in a counter-clockwise circle. Did I miss anything?"

"You forgot the blood," Teatime pointed out.

_Leave it to Teatime to remember the blood_.

"And blood must be spilled and burned in a fire along with the object. So preferably the object is something that won't be damaged by flame—like a stone, or something."

Teatime nodded.

"We should take these with us."

"Where are we going?"

"To get me a body, remember? You were going to kill me," he said cheerfully as he gathered up the papers.

"Um... Oh. Right," Susan blinked in confusion for half a second; the tone really didn't match the content. "How are we going to do that exactly?" she asked, her brow furrowing.

"Mordred. I'm going to go see Mordred, who will then give me a body." He was still gathering the notes. "Simple as that, really."

"And how is _he _going to do that?"

Teatime cocked his head.

"Something about wizards and manifestations of belief. We'll see what happens," he grinned.

Susan couldn't help but feel a little worried. None of this sounded... right. So with her brow furrowed and a slightly confused look plastered to her face, she followed as Teatime (_almost_)skipped out into the hall. He looked so... well, she wasn't quite sure _how_ he looked, but he did, and she couldn't keep a small smile from starting on her mouth.

"You hardly smile," he said thoughtfully, glancing over his shoulder at her.

"I smile when it's appropriate," she said defensively, all traces of upturned lips long gone.

"Just an observation. I rather like it when you do."

"Oh, really?"

Teatime didn't bother answering. It just sounded like a big hassle—for as brilliant, interesting, and _fun _Susan could be, she could also be a big pain in the neck. Like now.

They continued back down the way they had come last night to the end of stairs. The ballroom was quiet and empty, in rather eery contrast to the flurry of last night. Even their footsteps could be heard echoing throughout the room.

Susan glanced over to the corner 'hidden' by the glamoure. There was something purple on the table that no longer held punch. She squinted in hopes of making it out, but couldn't quite tell what it was. She grabbed Teatime's arm and started in a brisk pace towards the table.

"What's that over there?" she asked, but in a single step she was by the table. She felt a little dizzy and grasped it. "You could have told me you were going to do that!" Susan chastised through her disoriented state.

"Did I _frighten _you again?" he said antagonistically, a small smile forming on his lips.

She raised a finger, not bothering to look at him.

"_Don't you start!_"

Susan glanced down at the table to see a purple mask, meant to cover a face from eyes to nose. Some brightly colored feathers stuck out at the top, and the nose drew out from the rest of the mask to resemble a beak. She had seen this mask before.

"This was the peacock's," she said curiously, lifting it up and examining it.

"In the corner," Teatime said, pointing across from the table. There was her dress.

"Why do you think she came here?" Susan asked thoughtfully. "What is there at a ball that a journalist could report on? It was—by masquerade standards—a nice one. What would she have to say that could be so negative that they would have her killed?"

"I don't know—we'll have to keep our eyes peeled, _won't we?_" he grinned. "Come on, Susan. Let's go—I helped you with your goal. Let's finish mine."

Susan took a deep breath.

"Fine. But let's shift across the room—it's an awfully long way across."

He offered his elbow gentlemanly, and, though she rolled her eyes obnoxiously, Susan took it. It took them two small steps to cross the room through Teatime's way of travel... the oddest thing about it was how... normal it felt when you did it—just like taking a step.

_I suppose,_ she thought, _it'd have to be that way. This _is _just like taking a step for him—he just believes it can take him further than it should. And he believes he can take me with him._

To the right of the stairs was another grand door, though perhaps not quite as large as the door leading outside of the keep. They were standing just in front of it when Teatime turned to her, a huge, mischievous grinon his face and a finger pressed to his lips. She glanced at him questioningly, but he only took her elbow, walked a few paces to the left of the door and stepped through the wall.

Inside was a throne room, with a lone grand chair against the wall opposite them. The floor was stone, and tall torches lit the area. A man with dark black hair sat on the seat, on either side of him scarlet clad men stood as guards, while a third stood before him in mid conversation. He appeared to be talking about the fief's economics. No one saw either Teatime or Susan pressed against a wall in the shadows.

"What are you doing, Teatime?" she hissed incorrectly, keeping her eyes on Mordred—or at least who she _assumed _to be him. There was no reply. Susan glanced beside her, surprised to see no one there. "Teatime?!"

Somewhere, a clock struck eleven, it's loud ringing filling the chamber. Mordred glanced up, then noticed Susan.

"Who are you?" he asked curiously.

"Who are _you?_" she replied.

"I did ask first."

She almost bit her lip, trying to think of something to say.

_Teatime, where are you?! _she thought angrily. _I could use your help just about now!_

A maid walked inside, carrying a tray with some sugar, tea, and crumpets. She noted the scene, set the tray at Mordred's throne, then backed away slowly.

_It isn't even four o'clock yet,_ Susan wondered thoughtfully.

"She has a mask, my lord," a guard said, gesturing towards the peacock's headpiece. Susan glanced down to her right hand, more than a little surprised to find she was still holding. "The one that—"

Mordred nodded.

"What exactly were you planning to report?" he asked curiously.

"I don't know _what_ you're talking about."

"What are you doing here?"

"I appeared in the kitchen closet from the Unseen University during the masquerade when—"

"Are you even _thinking_ _through _your lies before you say them?" he asked incredulously.

"I'm being perfectly honest."

Mordred sighed.

"Just do away with her, will you? I hate journalists."

"I'm _not _a journalist!"

"Excuse me," the scarlet soldier who had been reporting said nervously, "but if she disappears her paper will send someone to investigate. I'm not sure if killing her is the best course of action. Perhaps... perhaps you should suspend her for questionable behavior?"

"_Excuse me?!_" Susan called angrily.

Mordred pursed his lips thoughtfully.

"That could work. Throw her in the dungeon."

"What do you—!" a sharp object slid into the side of Susan's stomach. She had just enough time to glance down and see half of the dart protruding, glance up and see the man in red holding a hand-held-crossbow who had shot it, before she collapsed as her eyes rolled up into her head.

*

Susan wasn't quite sure _where _exactly she was. It gave the distinct impression of the bottom of a well, minus the water. It was perfectly circular, about as wide as she was tall, made of stone, and around twenty feet deep. At the top she could see a light, and at the bottom... at the bottom, it was very cold.

_How did I get down here?_ she wondered, staring up at the light. It would be awfully _awkward _to bring anyone to the bottom of this... pit. _Well, I guess there's really only one thing to do_.

Susan stood, dusted off her skirt, and started to go through the stone wall. She expected to come out at the other side in less than a second, so she was increasingly unnerved to find that the stone stretched on. She continued never the less, but when after more than a minute there was no sign of an end she turned back towards her prison once more.

She sat, leaning against the cold stone as her hair fidgeted nervously, betraying her attempt at remaining calm. Yes, Susan was very good at hiding her emotions, but her hair never lied—when she was worried (such as now) it knotted itself in and out of a bun, twisted itself into braid after braid, twined in and out of her fingers and wrapped itself up around her head.

Her fingers turned blue in the dungeon chill, but she could barely tell in the dim light. She drew her knees to herself and wrapped her arms around them, hoping for some sort of warmth. The air was stale, crisp, and terribly silent. Not the hum of wind, the drip of water, not... _anything_. The quiet was a torture in itself, the cold a tormentor, but worst of all was the fact that she could do _nothing _about it. _Nothing_. She could go back into the wall, perhaps, but to what avail? From what she could tell she was deep underground, and even if she did come out of the stone there would be only dirt and mud. She had no way of climbing _upwards _inside of objects.

Beyond that, what could she do? Nothing, and that _truly _frightened her.

Seconds... minutes... _hours _passed; how long exactly, she did not know. But the empty silence killed her inside, and the nothingness dulled her mind. The cold chilled every atom of her being, and she could barely feel her fingers or toes. Her hair was getting even more nervous.

Suddenly, the light lessened and it grew darker. Her head snapped upwards in surprise, and up above at the top of the 'well' she could see a lone figure stretched from one end to the other. His hands and shoulders bent up against one side, while his feet pressed hard against the other, and in that way he slowly inched downwards. Susan instinctively reached out for her poker, before she remembered it was far away at home. She sighed heavily.

The figure continued downwards until he was about five to six feet from the ground, where he suddenly dropped down and landed on his feet, crouching. He grinned at Susan boyishly as her eyes widened in surprise.

"_Teatime?_" There was no mistaking that curly head of his. "Nice of you to show up _now!_" she called angrily as she stood. "What were you thinking, disappearing like that?!"

"It wasn't really my idea, Susan."

"I didn't know if you were alive, or dead, or had just left, or hurt, or injured, or—"

"You were _worried _about me, _weren't you?_" he said, grinning again.

"I most certainly _was not,_" Susan respond, taken aback and caught off guard.

"You _were_."

"Weren't!"

"Were."

"_Weren't!_"

"_Were!_"

Susan rolled her eyes and huffed in exasperation.

"What happened to you, Teatime? Where _were _you? And what are you doing here, anyway?"

He blinked curiously.

"Rescuing you, of course."

"_Why?_"

He cocked his head thoughtfully.

"I can go if you'd like."

Teatime pressed a foot against the stone wall and started to kick up his other towards it.

"Wait!" Susan called, holding up her hands.

"Your fingers," he said, glancing down at her outstretched arms in surprise before looking up again, "They're all blue."

The schoolteacher dropped them and glanced downwards, wrapping her fingers around one another for some semblance of warmth. Then she noticed something.

"Since when have you been solid, Teatime?"

He seemed a little taken off-guard at the change of topic, but not for very long.

"I'm not quite sure how that happened..." he said thoughtfully. "One second I was by you, ready to talk to Mordred, the next I found myself right where I used to be, only I had a body again, you were gone, and I had the distinct sensation that I had been somewhere... _else _and that some time had passed. I looked and listened and eventually found out what had happened to you."

Susan bit her lip thoughtfully.

"You must have become teatime," she said at last, failing to think of anything that made more sense.

"What do you mean?" The gears in his mind shifted slightly, and he smiled as he caught on. "I became _teatime_, you mean?"

"The minute you disappeared a maid came out with some tea and crumpets—I suppose you became a teatime at eleven o'clock in the morning since I and others mispronounce your name all the time. But why did you come back... _alive _again?"

"A glitch, I suppose," he said happily. "I'm not complaining, though."

"How do you intend to get me out of here, anyway?" Susan wondered, glancing around anxiously. "I don't think I could do... do what you just did if my life depended on it."

"I was going to throw you a rope," he answered matter-of-factly.

Susan blinked.

"And how do you intend to do _that? _You can't exactly pull me up from _here_."

"I wanted to make sure that it was you down here. I also wanted to test out my new body—see if it was as nimble as my old one."

"What did you find?" she asked dryly, crossing her arms.

"It'll do."

Susan attempted to hold back a laugh, only partially successful. It was silent after that, and she could feel his iron gaze boring into her.

"How long have you been down here, Susan?" he asked softly.

"I don't know," she answered simply. "Why do you ask?"

"You're trembling."

She glanced away.

"Let me see your hands, Susan. Please."

She unfolded her arms and held out her purple fingers to him... she could barely feel them anymore. Teatime took her hands gently and looked back and forth over them with his mismatched eyes.

"Their freezing," he said as he cupped them together and began to breathe hot air on them. He'd almost sounded worried.

Teatime's hands were warm and callused against her freezing fingers. It was hard to believe that these tender, warm hands had brought the cold, brutal deaths of countless peoples. Not these tender, soft and gentle hands, bringing feeling back to her numb fingers. Her hands had been so numb before—but now she could feel his fingers on hers in perfect clarity, and it caused her breathing to quicken.

And it shouldn't feel like this. _She _shouldn't feel like this. He was insane—a killer, a murderer, a cold blooded assassin who wouldn't think twice about slitting her throat.

"Let go of me, Teatime," she said firmly, attempting to pull her hands back. He tightened his grip and stepped closer, looking up into her eyes.

"Susan Sto-Helit... the moment I saw you I knew you'd be special," he smiled. "I don't normally underestimate things."

In a flash he was clambering back up the pit, feet on one side, shoulders cramped on the other as he slid upwards—somehow making the awkward movement seem graceful. He made it to the top quickly, and a rope dropped down a few seconds later. Susan grasped the rough twine and clambered up, pressing her feet against the stone.

Her hands tingled—and no matter how hard she tried to tell herself otherwise, she knew it wasn't from the cold. And even if it was, how could she explain her racing heart?


	9. Rules

**Author's Notes:**** I've made you wait longer than I ever have before, and now I have to disappoint you: even **_**I**_** know that this chapter isn't as good as my others, so be warned. I've rewritten it four times, but could never get it to come out right, so I'm just moving forwards. It's boring and a bit of a drag, but I promise that the next will better. Just hang in there! Oh, and a couple things are mentioned in this chapter that might make this more of a T story... tell me if you think I should raise the rating.**

**Here you are... rules are set, journalists met, and stupid things revealed in stupid ways in this stupid, stupid chapter. **

**Disclaimer: **I don't own any of the characters or the Discworld. Thank you, Mr. Pratchett, for inventing them. Why _Harry Potter_ became super famous and not these books, I will never know.

Chapter Nine

Rules

Susan was very skinny. She didn't look unhealthy, and it was somehow hard to notice, but if you did stop and look you would be surprised by how thin her waist was, how bony her arms were. It shouldn't be surprising, considering her grandfather _was _a skeleton, but it was still eery to see. What _was_ surprising, however, was that she was even lighter than she looked. And that was saying something.

So as Teatime held the rope Susan clung to, he couldn't help but notice how easy it was to keep her from falling. It was this fact that made him thoroughly mystified as to how she could _possibly _be taking so _long_. She pulled herself up steadily, placing one hand over the other, but she seemed to be moving an inch minute. He attempted to start a conversation, as Susan could have very interesting things to say when she wanted to, but she only grunted, huffed, and hmmed in reply.

_Note: don't try to talk to Susan when she's climbing up a rope. _

When at last she reached the top Teatime had almost reached a state of (god forbid) _boredom_. He grabbed her arm and pulled her upwards, almost as easily as Banjo had in the Toothfairy's Castle, glad to at last have something to _do_ besides hold up a rope.

Susan purposely avoided looking at him as she examined her surrounding. They were in a large dungeon, with several pits similar to the one she had been trapped in, a few chains hanging from the the stone walls, a plain candle chandelier dangling from the high ceiling and several skeletons. Susan had happened to be in the pit furthest from the rest, the one on the edge. Across the room was a hinged iron door, completely made out of bars and locked tight. Between the bars she could see some gray stone stairs leading upwards, but unless they could get through that lock they were trapped.

"How are we going to get out?" Susan asked, her face wrinkling. "And how did _you _get _in?_"

"I picked the lock," he said matter-of-factly

"And then you locked it again?" she asked in confusion.

"It's very important to be tidy," he replied with a cheery smile. "Besides, if someone came to check on the prisoners I doubt they would assume someone was trying to free you if the door was still locked. I can pick it again easily enough; it's a simple lock."

"Banjo said you had Mr. Brown with you when you tried to kill the Hogfather. Why on Earth did you _need _him?" she asked as Teatime bent before the bar door.

"_Simple _lock, Susan. I know the basics, but Mr. Brown was the best," the lock clicked and he stood abruptly, grinning at her broadly. "You should always have the best."

The gate swung open.

"You don't have 'the best' now."

"Au contraire, Susan. You are the best in monster detainment, poker wielding, reading and gathering information, cynical deductions... et cetera."

"Was that a bit of French _and _Latin, Teatime?" she asked, raising a brow.

"Please don't call me 'teatime', Susan," Teatime said with a sigh as he started up the stairs. "I did save your life twice—"

"I would have taken care of those men!" she called defensively, glaring as she marched after him. "And if you had given me more time I would have gotten out of here as well."

"—, and if you keep calling me that," he continued, completely ignoring her outburst, "I might... _become _it again. I rather like being solid."

Susan sighed.

"Alright. I'll _try_."

"Oh, I know you can do better than that, Susan," he replied cheerfully. She rolled her eyes.

"Where arewe going?" she asked curiously.

"I believe," he replied, "we are attempting to find us a wizard. And a magical stone."

She skipped a few steps in an attempt to catch up with him, her brow furrowed in confusion.

"You're going to help me?"

He blinked, as if that had never been in question.

"Of course. It'd be terribly _boring _without you, Susan."

"Should I take that as a compliment?"

"If you like," he said with a shrug.

Susan cocked her head thoughtfully before dismissing it quickly.

Teatime didn't mind the cold. He actually quite liked it. He also didn't much mind pain when it was necessary. He could, if need be, dismiss it completely, and he had never minded the pain of others. So in general, Teatime was never very uncomfortable. But for some strange reason, now that he saw Susan all blue and trembling he couldn't help but shiver himself. It was getting on his nerves, too. Couldn't she just get _warm _and stop bothering him? It was driving him nuts seeing her tremble, making his whole being turn cold. If it went on another second he would have to _kill her _and be _done _with it.

Susan shivered.

"That's it, Susan!" he said, rounding on her quickly.

"What?" she asked, her eyebrows rising in surprise. "Is something wrong Tea—" she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, "_Teatime_." Why was it so darn hard to say his name correctly?

"Yes, something is very wrong. Can't you warm up?"

"I don't think I have much control over my body temperature, Teatime."

"Could you at least stop _shivering?_"

"I don't think I can control that, either."

He sighed in frustration, then slid off his long overcoat.

"Wear this, then," he said as he offered it to her.

"Won't _you _get—?"

"I really don't mind it," he interrupted. "Just take it, won't you?"

Slowly, Susan took his coat and slid it over her shoulders. It was still warm from his heat, and as she wrapped it around herself she couldn't help but sigh as the cold ebbed back slightly.

"Thank you, Jonathan," she said, eyes closed as she pulled his coat tight around her with a small smile. He dipped his head in response, feeling very pleased with himself.

"Mordred has a wizard," he said, as he started up the steps once more. Susan followed him, a new spring in her steps now that the chill had been banished somewhat. "I don't know how... _good _he is, but I doubt he needs to be too skillful for our purposes."

"As for a magical object...?" she asked, rather pleased that she was keeping up with him.

"I don't know," he said with a sigh, looking a little glum. He brightened quickly, a cheerful smile touching his face. "But I'm sure the wizard will."

About then Susan stopped in her tracks. She knew the glint in his eyes—and it was _not _a good sign.

"Look, Tea—" she bit her lip mid sentence. She really had to work on this whole name thing. He paused and turned to her curiously, listening intently. "Teatime, if we're going to be... a team,"

Strange. It felt so odd saying those words. Since when had she wanted to be in a 'team' with Teatime? Why didn't it thoroughly _repulse_ her? It used to, but now... now she didn't mind his company. In fact, she realized, she rather liked it. She liked Teatime's company. _WHEN _had _that _happened?

"If we're going to be a team," she continued, "I have to set a few rules."

Teatime looked like he was going to be _very _amused shortly, crossed his arms and smirked as he watched her.

"First of all, I don't want you to hold me at knife point. _Ever_."

"I won't hold you at knife point—with any intent of hurting you, at least," he added.

"_Ever_," she said firmly.

"_Fine_."

"Second, I don't want you to kill anyone without my express permission."

"_But Susan—_" he whined, and Susan couldn't help but be reminded of her schoolchildren. She hid a smile.

"This one I am very adamant about, Jonathan," she said coolly. He pouted. "Also, I may have to see my grandfather at some point. I won't tell him where you are right away, but I won't lie either, so it's up to you to stay out of sight."

"Is that it?" he asked.

"That about covers it," she said with a nod.

"Good. My turn now—"

"_Your turn?_" she asked incredulously.

"Yes, _my turn_. First off, you will _not _call me 'teatime' under _any _circumstances. If you do..." he searched left and right thoughtfully before he _grinned_, "...I get to hold you at knife point."

Susan glared at him.

"_Fine_."

"Secondly, I reserve the right to _threaten _and _intimidate_ without permission. Understand?"

"Fine."

"Thirdly, if I need your help, I want to know I'll have it. I've proven that I'll watch your back, Susan; you watch mine."

She took a deep breathe and nodded, then extended a pale, slender hand.

"Do we have a deal?"

Teatime grinned in that boyish way of his and took her hand.

"We are... _agreed_, then."

Susan couldn't help but smile back. Teatime started up the stairs, practically beaming.

"You could let go of my hand, Tea—_Teatime_."

"I'd rather not," he said simply, bounding up the steps happily.

How far did these stairs go on for anyway?

"At least slow down a bit, won't you?!" she called—he was practically _dragging _her.

"Oh, fine," he sighed, slowing his pace slightly. There was a short silence as they made their way up the steps.. "I've never had a _partner _before," he beamed thoughtfully.

"I _know _you've worked with other people before now."

"Yes, but I've never really had a _partner_. It's quite a bit different. I don't think I've really ever trusted anyone before, either," he cocked his head for half a second, "Well, I know there's a chance you might kill me, but I still have this feeling that I can count on you. I wonder why."

"I wonder as well," she agreed dryly.

He grinned.

"This is so much fun!"

"Honestly, you are terribly _hyper _right—"

Teatime's face grew curious, he drew his free hand to his lips, pausing on the steps.

"Susan," he said softly, "someone is coming down the stairs."

The schoolteacher's eyes widened.

"What do we do?" she breathed.

"Go inside the wall," he said.

"What about you?"

He grinned.

"Don't worry about me," he answered before he pressed one of his feet to one of the walls, another to the other and began to climb upwards. It looked terribly precarious.

"Be _careful,_" Susan said worriedly.

Teatime considered commenting that she was _worried _about him, but decided against it.

"Don't worry, Susan. I know what I'm doing; _hide_."

She nodded, and slid into the wall, watching the stairs for whoever was on their way.

It was a couple minutes before they saw the woman walking down the steps. She looked to be in her late twenties to early thirties, but it was hard to make an exact judgment. She had long, dark, stick-straight, purply-red hair, a white shirt with a tan vest, and some tan—of all things—_pants_. She glanced around herself nervously, took a deep breath and smiled.

Susan knew that smile.

_YOU! _she said in her **Voice**, stepping from the wall and punching the peacock (even if she wasn't dressed as one) straight in the nose.

The peacock flew backwards and hit the stone wall behind her, shock evident on her face. Teatime dropped from above and landed gracefully before he stood.

"Persephone Pearle, I presume?" he asked.

"Peace!" she called, standing slowly with her hands outstretched. She didn't seem to notice her bleeding nose. "I really am sorry, Miss Susan. I didn't mean for you to get into trouble."

Susan _glared_.

Teatime had never realized how _nice _it was not to be the focus of that glare until now. He couldn't help but smile happily.

"Really, I didn't. How could I know you were going to pick up my mask? I didn't even think you were still in the keep."

"What are you doing down here?" Susan asked suspiciously.

"I came to rescue you," Persephone said, lifting her chin. "I wouldn't have left you, Susan... though it seems your gentleman friend has beaten me to the task."

The peacock touched her nose, wiping some of the blood dripping from it with her hand. She laughed nervously.

"You've got a good punch."

"She really does, _doesn't she?_" Teatime agreed.

"She got you, too?" the peacock asked, raising her eyebrows sympathetically.

"He _deserved _it," Susan said crossly, folding her arms in agitation.

Teatime cocked his head thoughtfully.

"I beg to differ," he added.

Susan considered saying he had just tried to _kill _her, but simply pursed her lips angrily and changed the subject.

"Why were you here in the first place? Teatime tells me your a journalist."

Persephone blinked in surprise, then grinned.

"He's right. I work for the _Ankh-Morpork Times. _Lord Mordred has been throwing quite a few charity balls, but there has been a considerable lack of _any _charities growing financially," the peacock's face turned dark as she continued, her voice growing more and more passionate, "..._I _think he's keeping the money for himself, cheating charities from the food, clothing and everyday necessities that could have been purchased for those who truly need it. I found a way to infiltrate the ball and leapt on it; I have to expose this lord for what he _truly _is," she shook her head, took a deep breath and managed a pleasant smile. "Who are you both, and why are _you _here?"

Susan sighed and glanced at Teatime. He cocked his head curiously.

_A lot of help you are, _she thought sarcastically.

"He's the assassin who tried to kill the Hogfather and I'm the girl who stopped him. We're trying to bring back the Unseen University and the other things that have disappeared."

"You're _Death's Granddaughter?_ But that would mean..." her eyes searched left and right for half a second. "I've met _Death?! _Charity _indeed! _If only I'd _known! _I would have asked him so many questions..." she brightened, reaching behind her ear to grab the quill resting there as she took a notepad from her vest. "Would you care to answer a few questions?" she asked hopefully.

Susan opened her mouth to decline, then noticed that the quill had nothing to write _with._

"Where are you getting the ink?" she asked curiously.

"What?"

"You've got a notebook and a quill, but I don't see any ink."

"I had the quill enchanted. It would be a terrible hassle to have to carry some of the stuff around all the time," she explained. "Would you care to answer a few questions?"

"I hate to be the bearer of bad news," Teatime said softly, "but we really ought to be moving."

Susan sighed in relief. Answering a hoard of questions would only remind her how _un_normal she was.

"Let's get going, then," she said, working up the stairs.

"Where are you going _to_, exactly?" Persephone asked.

"I wish I knew," Susan answered dryly. The peacock blinked, then shrugged and followed.

The stairs stretched upwards for so long. Susan's legs were starting to turn numb, but at least the terrible cold was ebbing away—even if slowly. It was also more than a little dull, this long process of climbing upwards and upwards, and even if was warm_er_, it was still chilly. She was grateful for Teatime's coat about now.

So the trio continued in heavy silence. At last, after who knew how long, they reached the top of the steps. It opened to a small, five foot by five foot stone room. On the opposite side of the stairs was a plain wooden door. Susan stepped towards it, but Teatime shook his head and pressed his ear to the wood.

"Do you hear anything?" she asked quietly.

"No," he said. "Go ahead, Susan."

She pushed the door open slowly, seeing it open to the same hall she had traveled through earlier that day. Or a least she assumed it was the same day.

"What time is it?" she asked.

"Sometime after midnight," the peacock answered.

Susan nodded.

"You say Mordred has a wizard?" she asked Teatime.

"Yes," the peacock said before the assassin had time to speak. "Timothy Orton. I could show you where he is, if you want."

"Really?" Susan said hopefully.

Persephone smiled sheepishly.

"It's the least I can do after I got you locked up in that pit. It's terribly... _unpleasant _down there, I know," she said.

"Tell me about it..." Susan mumbled, pulling Teatime's trenchcoat more tightly about her to banish the remembered cold.

"Show us, then, Miss Pearle," Teatime said. "Left... or _right?_"

"Right," she replied firmly, stepping briskly in that direction, hands clenched in determination.

Susan was about to follow, but Teatime grabbed her arm and bent close over her ear.

"Do you trust her?" he whispered softly.

"Near as much as I trust you," she replied with a small shrug.

"Hmm..." he said thoughtfully. "We may be headed for trouble, then."

"I know," Susan replied dryly.

Teatime stepped away from her and started to follow the long, confident strides of the peacock. The schoolteacher, surprised by how empty she suddenly felt, shook her head and went after the others. After a few minutes of walking, the peacock paused and gestured to another of the wooden doors.

"Mr. Ortan's office is inside," she said. "He won't be there until morning. There's an adjoined room; we could stay there through the night."

"You said 'we'," Teatime observed curiously.

"Mr. Ortan has some papers that may prove vital to my story. I've already gotten most of the information I need, but what he has will help. I was also hoping to interview him."

"Well enough, then," said Susan, as she pulled the door open.

The office was near identical to Riddly's old one, except the desk was more of an L-shaped counter, starting from the left of the window, going forwards about four feet and then turning right of the window for another four feet. There were cabinets on the inside of the counter, and a door to the left of it. Otherwise, it was the same.

The peacock walked into the desk and bent to the floor as she started going through the papers inside. "You two make yourselves comfortable; I'm going to see if I can find those documents..."

The door on the left led to a room a little bigger than the one at the top of the stairs. There were cabinets covering all the walls, stuffed with all sorts of magical ingredients.

"I wonder," Susan wondered, "if there's a magical item among all of these..."

"Perhaps so," Teatime said thoughtfully. Susan almost jumped; she hadn't heard him coming. "We should look tomorrow."

She nodded.

Susan slid Teatime's cloak off her shoulders and spread it out on the ground. It was thick, and, if not by much, made the hard stone floor softer.

"You like my coat, I see," he observed, sitting down beside her.

"It's warm," she said matter-of-factly.

"I thought you liked the cold."

"Too much of a good thing can be bad."

"True," he said thoughtfully. "What made you decide to become a teacher, Susan?"

"I like children," she shrugged. "As gory, gruesome and silly as they can be. What made _you _decide to be an assassin?"

"I like challenges. They offered to take me in when I was young. It seemed challenging, so I accepted."

"You were orphaned?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"My mother died when I was born. I killed my father."

Susan took a long, deep breath at what he had just said.

"Please don't tell me you just said you killed your father."

"I did."

She sighed.

"_Why?_"

"He was hurting Marly," he said, not even bothering to look at her. It was almost as if he understood how odd what he was saying sounded.

"_Who?_"

"It doesn't matter, Susan," he sighed, sliding down from his sitting position to a lying one.

"Yes it does. Tell me: who is this _Marly?_"

"She was my twin sister," he relented. "She'd finish my thoughts, she knew what I was thinking... She _was _me, in a way, and I was her. No one, Susan, besides her, has ever understood me in the slightest. But she didn't just understand me—she knew me, in every form of the word, and she loved me for what I was," he paused. "You once asked where I learned to dance... Marly and I would listen to the music of balls and masquerades, sometimes even sneak in and watch. We'd dance to the music that escaped into the alleys sometimes."

"Go on."

"One night my father hit me. I don't even remember why. Marly tried to make him stop, so he started attacking her and hit her head with something hard. He didn't stop, even when her head split opened and started bleeding, so I climbed on his back and stabbed him until _he _bled."

Somehow, Susan had a sinking suspicion that she knew how this story would end.

"She died, didn't she?"

Teatime nodded.

"Did you find her after _you _died?"

He shook his head slowly.

"If I had, I never would have left, Susan."

"I'm sorry," she said sincerely.

He grinned at the ceiling.

"That was a long time ago," he turned to her, still smiling broadly, "...but it hurts just as badly as it did when I first saw her head all bloody. She had pale hair, like mine. It was so odd to see it so red. If only I could go back there now... I'm a lot better at everything than I was then," he searched the room with his eyes. "I wish I'd killed him sooner. I'd wanted to, but Marly didn't. I shouldn't have listened to her."

"If you're going to wish, Teatime," she said, "wish that he had been a good father."

He shrugged.

"I'm trying to be realistic."

Susan frowned and cocked her head at his logic.

"Were you an only child, Susan?" he asked curiously, turning up to her.

"Yes."

"How sad."

"And your story isn't?"

"I'd rather have had and lost her than never had her at all."

"Well, I've nothing to be sad about. Except the fact that I have _Death _for a grandfather."

"I don't understand why you have such a problem with that," he said thoughtfully. "You care for him, and he cares for you. And no, you aren't normal and you never will be. You'll be _Susan_, but what else would you _want _to be? Death or human, it doesn't matter—you are you, and you do just fine at being that."

"You do a spectacular job of being yourself as well," she commented dryly.

"Thank you," he replied, grinning boyishly. Susan shook her head.

"Have I ever told you how crazy you are? Because if not, I really must now."

"Yes."

"Shame."

The peacock walked into the closet, a bright smile on her face.

"It's late, you both. We should try to get some sleep," she said, plopping down beside them.

Susan nodded.

"Sleep well, then, everyone," she said, lying down on Teatime's coat.

"Sleep well," Persephone echoed.

Teatime didn't say anything, but watched intently as Susan's hair shifted and tangled.


	10. A first time for everything

**Extra Author's Notes: Ahhhhhhhhhhhh! I completely forgot to write this. I need you all to review and mention your favorite Teatime to Susan quotes (e.g. "I did say teh-ah-tim-eh. Please don't try to break my concentration by annoying me") from book, movie, or my story (preferably my story) so I can use them in subsequent chapters (not necessarily the next, but one close to it). Thanks!--okay, now go on to the actual author's notes... **

**Author's Notes:**_** Literally**_** is coming close to an end, just to let you know, so there probably won't be more than four chapters after this, if even that. Thank you, all of you, for your wonderful reviews, kind thoughts, wishing me well when I was sick, and for your devoted reading. I've written a prequel of sorts for this story called _Marly Had a Brother_, (slap this on to the end of '': **/s/5712548/1/Marly_Had_a_Brother**), if you're interested in reading it. **

**Peacocks are peacocks, wizards faint, and Susan feels happy (can you guess why...?). Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Susan, or Teatime, or Death, or the Discword, or most the things in this story. Thank you, Terry Pratchett, for creating them!

Chapter Ten

A first time for everything...

Asleep, Susan didn't look half as stern as she did awake, Teatime thought. She looked soft, even (if 'Susan' and 'soft' could be used in the same sentence). Thankfully, she had rolled off the bulk of his coat during the night, so as he slid it out from underneath her she didn't even stir. He pulled his arms through the sleeves, feeling the slight burst of pride he always felt when he wore an assassin's attire. He had worked long and hard to wear this outfit, and it never ceased to please him.

Teatime pulled out his knife and scrawled a message on the inside of the door for Susan. He glanced once more at her (fast asleep and soft-looking) and smiled before he pushed the door open silently. It was an art, opening doors without letting them creak—an art he had mastered many (_many_) years ago. The warm colors of sunrise seeped into the wizard's office through the window. The room was pleasantly cool, with crisp, fresh air swirling throughout the chamber.

The assassin made his way to the window, placing his feet on the rim and hands on the roofing outside. It didn't take much effort to slide up onto the keep's crenulations. He sat in the sunrise, feeling the morning air fly over him and took in deep breath.

_It must have rained while I slept_, he deduced, noting the wet rooftop and sweet smell of rain.

It was pleasant, the quiet and silence of morning, the wind in his hair.

_It won't be long before the wizard comes to his office, _Teatime thought.

And he would be ready.

*

Justifying willingly agreeing to travel with Teatime was harder than Susan had expected. He was crazy. He was a murderer. He was childish... Somehow, though, she liked that one thing about him—he was so like Gawain, or the other boys in her class. And that smile of his... she almost laughed. It was so crooked and happy. Not to mention that since he had traveled with her he hadn't killed a single person. If she could keep him from taking lives, that was reason enough to deal with him, wasn't it?

Besides, she wouldn't mind seeing more of that smile.

She sighed peacefully in her half-sleep, glad she had finally succeeded in justifying her actions. It was terribly uncomfortable, feeling uneasy about a decision you made; even more uncomfortable than sleeping on this hard stone. It was cold underneath her, and the individual rocks scratched her cheeks like sandpaper.

Susan's eyes flew open. Where was Teatime's coat?

And more importantly, she realized, where was Teatime?

Susan quickly surveyed the room. The peacock was asleep, curled up in a ball of sorts in a corner, but the assassin was nowhere to be seen. Then she noticed the door. The wood had been engraved with tiny letters, slightly stiff and evenly spaced. Susan crawled closer to it and examined the writing.

_ S-_

_Good morning. Knock when he comes and you're ready. Out window. Hope you slept well._

_ -T_

She shook her head, a slight smile threatening to show on her lips. The peacock yawned softly, sitting up slowly.

"Good morning, Susan. Where's your friend?"

"I'm not sure if I'd call him that..." she answered thoughtfully.

"What _would _you call him, then?"

"That's a very good question," Susan said dryly. "He left a message on the door; he's out the window."

"Why?"

"He didn't say. I'm guessing to have the wizard surrounded."

"Reasonable enough, I suppose. Do we know if the wizard is out there yet?"

About then they heard the loud creek of a door accompanied by the sound of someone tripping.

"Yes," Susan answered as she stood and dusted off her skirt, "I think we do. Are you ready?"

"For what?" Persephone asked as she stood.

"I really don't know. For once in my life," she coughed nervously, not quite realizing how hard it would be to say the words she planned to, "I'm trusting Teatime."

Susan marched up to the door and knocked briskly. Outside the door and out of sight, a wizard turned in confusion towards the sound, and an assassin, ears perked after hours of waiting, started to slide down towards a window.

Susan knocked again. Timothy Ortan, more than a little unnerved, walked towards the door and reached for the knob. Then he felt a knife at his side.

"Hello," a cheerful voice called. "My name's Teatime. I think I already know yours."

Another knock.

"Do answer that, please, Mr. Ortan" Teatime said.

The shaking wizard grabbed the knob and turned it, surprised to see a woman with white hair and a black streak standing behind it.

"Nicely done, Teatime," she said. "Did you have to terrify him so much, though? He's _trembling_."

"I've only been _polite_," he replied. "I just seem to have that affect on people..."

The peacock squeezed passed Susan and flashed a friendly smile towards the wizard.

"Hello, Mr. Ortan. I am Persephone Pearle, and I'd like to ask you a few questions."

"Um..." Timothy Ortan squeaked.

"And please do so... _honestly_," Teatime purred.

Quite promptly, the wizard fell to the flour and fainted. The assassin's brow furrowed.

"Was it something I said?" he wondered innocently.

_Susan_ wondered if he was pretending, or honestly didn't realize how creepy he was. It was hard to tell with him, sometimes.

_Probably lying_, she decided. _He knows what he can do._

The peacock kneeled beside the unconscious wizard and looked him over quickly.

"He hit his head pretty bad," she said, "he'll probably wake up within the hour, though."

"And we'll do _what _until then?"

"You forgot the magical object, Susan," Teatime said cheerfully. "Shall we search for it in the other room?"

Susan sighed in resignation.

"Actually," the peacock said, "I think there's a bucket of water in one of the cabinets by his desk. Could you grab that for me so I can wake up the wizard, Susan?"

"I'll get started in the other room," Teatime said with a pleasant smile as he headed that way.

"I'll get it," Death's granddaughter sighed as she made her way around the desk. She bent down and opened one of the cabinets. Sure enough, there was a bucket full of water. "What is a bucket _doing _here anyway?" she mumbled. Susan was about to grab it...

"Susan...?" a slightly weak voice called out. "I think I might need your help."

"Hold for a few seconds, Teatime!" she called grumpily, lifting the bucket and letting it slosh as she walked towards the peacock.

"Susan, please—"

"Just a minute, Teatime!"

"Alright," he sighed airily.

"Here, Persephone," Susan said, setting the bucket beside her.

"I'll try to wake him up, then," the journalist said. "You help the assassin, alright?"

Susan rolled her eyes as she made her way into the adjoining room. She was surprised to find him sitting on the ground, his legs outstretched in front of him.

"What are you doing?" she asked, her brow furrowing.

"It's some kind of a body bind," he said dismally, glancing up at an open drawer.

"Are you alright?"

"I don't seem to be harmed physically. I can't move anything but my head." He glanced down at his chest. "Oh no."

"What?!"

Red blood started to seep through his black clothing in a horizontal line across his chest, starting at her left and slowly moving right. He glanced up at her.

"Please close the drawer, Susan," he said.

A slight feeling of panic welled up in her as she swerved to the drawer in the wall and shoved it in. Teatime let out a long breath as she sat beside him, opening and closing his hands.

"That _hurt_," he said, staring at his fingers as he moved them in fascination.

"The cutting?"

"The pressure," he corrected.

"What pressure?"

"Keeping me from moving," Teatime paused as he examined his chest once more. "I'm still losing blood. Do you have any bandages?"

"No..." Susan stood, glancing out the door for the peacock.

Well, she _did _see a peacock.

And it's all She Who Shine's fault, too. Poor Persephone Pearle. Now she's a peacock, since the silly author of this story enjoys calling her 'the peacock' so much.

"Oh bollocks," she cursed softly. Teatime was standing beside her in a quarter of a second.

"I guess _she _doesn't have any bandages either, then. Maybe there are some in the cabinets. Let's hurry—I'm beginning to feel… _light headed_."

So Susan searched the wizard's desk for bandages, and Teatime searched the wizard's unconscious body for reasons unknown to her. She realized the logic of his actions when he stood with a key and locked the door to Ortan's office.

Then she found the bandages.

"Found some!" she called.

Teatime slid off his coat, vest, and finally shirt (so many layers; it was surprising he didn't boil over. Then again, this keep _was _very cold) to show the nasty gash beneath it all. And it _was _bleeding terribly. Susan would have been shocked by it if she hadn't been preoccupied with all the _other _marks over his torso. Not a two-square inch of skin was free of a scar of some sort. Her eyes widened and brow furrowed as she stared at him in shock.

"Where did these come from?" she asked, staring at the slashes and gashes, the pale white veins and red bands, the raised and twisted skin covering his chest.

"Various situations," he shrugged as he took the bandages and wrapped them around himself quickly. How he managed that she would never know. It looked so natural as he did it, but when she tried to do similar things later she realized how _impossible _it was. Then again, nothing was really impossible for Jonathon Teatime.

At the moment, however, she was still staring at his scars.

"_Various situations?_"

She traced one of the long, white veins with her index finger, her face a mixture of horror and awe. It was an odd expression, Teatime thought, but in a good way. He took her hand and lowered it slowly, looking into her brown eyes with his mismatched ones, a half smile forming on his mouth.

"You look so worried, Susan," he teased.

She glared and ripped her hand away, slightly surprised that he had let her go as she turned towards the window angrily.

"I'm _shocked_. Not worried," she corrected, not bothering to look at him.

"I suppose we'd better start the spell..." Teatime said thoughtfully as he pulled his shirt, vest, and finally trenchcoat over his arms.

"What spell? We don't have a magical—"

The assassin sighed. He really had hoped he wouldn't have to do this.

"We do, Susan," he said, slowly lifting a finger to his glass eye. Susan's flesh and blood ones widened.

"Your _eye?_"

He nodded.

"It's even magical?" she stopped and thought for a few seconds, "So _that's _how you're able to—"

Teatime actually looked somewhat close to _grumpy_ as he crossed his arms in agitation.

"No, Susan. Everything I do, I do on my own. The eye only lets me see things that are really there—Death, a toothfairy, gnomes, fairies... et cetera."

Teatime worked very hard to be able to do such amazing things effortlessly. People saying his speed, grace, agility, foresight and brilliance were all due to his 'magic eye' was his second worst pet-peeve (the first being someone mispronouncing his name, of course).

"You are going to let me _burn_ your _eye?_"

"It shouldn't melt if we pull it out quickly."

Susan made a face.

"If you insist..."

"We'd better wake the wizard soon. My cut will scab shortly, and I'd rather we used the blood from that than make you or I bleed again."

'Cut' was a severe understatement, Susan thought.

"Right. I'd forgotten about the blood."

"That's the second time you've done that..." he said thoughtfully.

Susan grabbed the bucket and dumped it on the wizard's head. He sat up straight screaming.

"THE WOLVES ARE ON MY BACK!" he yelled, then glanced around quickly. "Um, where am I?" Then he saw Teatime. "Oh dear..." the wizard moaned quietly as he laid back on the floor slowly.

"Excuse me," Susan said politely, "excuse me, Mr. Ortan."

"What?" he sighed.

"My name is Susan Sto-Helit."

Timothy sat up straight, his face wide and alert.

"You mean...? You mean _Death—_"

"Yes, yes—the white horse, the cape, the scythe, the granddaughter. Right now I need you to do me a favor."

"I would love to help, Miss Sto-Helit, I really would, but you see, Mordred has me terribly busy quickening the installation of a fireplace in his throne room and—"

"I think you should hear her out," Teatime suggested cheerfully, a broad, friendly smile crossing his face.

Timothy Ortan shut up.

"Do you know about the Unseen University?"

"Yes..." he said slowly. "That it has disappeared, you mean?"

Susan nodded.

"We're trying to bring it back."

"I don't know why it's gone, or what happened to it, or anything abou—"

Teatime started fingering his knife idly, his gaze sliding over the blade.

Timothy Ortan shut up.

"All we need you to do is say some words we have written down and wave your wand... counter-clockwise...?" she asked, glancing at the assassin, who nodded.

"That's it?" the wizard asked, disbelief showing on his face.

"Yes, that's it," Susan answered.

The wizard let out a long, deep breath.

"Oh, thank goodness! I was worried that you had some big, grand adventure in store for me. You see, us wizards very much like—"

"Do you have anything... _important _to say?" Teatime asked.

Timothy Ortan shut up.

"Here's the spell," Susan said, passing some of her notes on Riddly's notes over to the wizard. He looked them over quickly.

"Yes, this should be easy. Let me get my fire kindling..." he said as he stood and made his way to the other room. He walked through the door, stopped in his tracks, and swerved towards them.

"Someone has been here and searched through my drawers!" he called worriedly. "_And _they escaped... this could be a problem; he might be anywhere with anything. There were some highly confidential spells in there—"

"That was me, Mr. Ortan," Teatime said idly.

"Oh. That explains the bloody gash then," he laughed nervously, gesturing to the stains on his black coat. Teatime grinned back.

"It certainly was... _unpleasant_."

The wizard, rather shocked that _anyone _could go through his body bind and think _clearly _(Teatime had never really thought 'clearly'; perhaps that explains how he bounced back so easily and handled it so well) afterwards, began to shuffle through his drawers to find some paper and a few matches. The peacock squawked and waddled about the room, exploring every nook and cranny. Teatime attempted to remove his glass eye, which was a lot more difficult than he had expected. Susan kept finding herself glancing his way, and then wishing she hadn't.

In approximately six minutes they had a fire going, a glass eye available, a bit of blood ready, and one unsettled Susan. Teatime looked so odd without his eye, and even odder holding it in his left hand. It just wasn't _right_.

"_You're eye _is the magical object?!" the wizard asked in shock.

"Yes," Teatime said.

"You put a _magical object _into your _own eye socket?_"

"Yes."

"Oh, alright then." Timothy smiled nervously. "Go ahead and put... put your eye in the fire," he said.

Teatime (rather reluctantly) dropped the glass orb into the flames, and watched in awe as the fire danced about and licked it.

"Do hurry," he said softly, cocking his head at the flames, "I don't want it to... _melt_."

Ortan glanced at the assassin and shakily began to read from the pages in his hands, waving his wand counter-clockwise.

"," he mumbled quickly, jumbling them all together in an effort to get it over with.

The blood fell into the flame... and the eye began to glow. It didn't burn red; no, it emanated _blue_. It shown brighter and brighter, and then with a terrible flash and a sound akin to canon fire, it _stopped_. The peacock vanished, and half a second later they heard things falling on the roof above them. Teatime's head shot up, as well as Susan's and the wizard's in surprise. The schoolteacher immediately ran for the window, but the assassin was there long before her. He slid through and started to climb upwards.

"What are you doing, Teatime?!" Susan asked in surprise, sticking her head out after him.

"It seems," his voice called down, "that we've succeeded."

"How so?" she asked.

Teatime slid passed her and through the window, grinning broadly.

"They're all up there. The journalist, a tourist, your grandfather..."

"Lobsang?" Susan asked hopefully.

The assassin made a sour face, feeling for his knife.

"Yes, I suppose he's there too."

"Um...?" the wizard asked.

"Funny," Teatime said thoughtfully, "you remind me of another wizard I knew..."

"Could I have my key, please?" he asked politely (if more than a little shakily).

If you had been there, you never would have seen the assassin reach into his coat. Somehow, the key simply went flying across the room and landed in the wizard's hand. Teatime considered killing him for half a second, but decided that Susan would be terribly _annoying _if he did.

"You won't mention us, will you?" he asked as he looked under the desk for another bucket.

Timothy shook his head adamantly. Teatime doused the fire.

"No, no, don't worry about that. Good day, Miss Susan. Give my regards to your grandfather, won't you?"

"You know him?" she asked curiously.

"Um... I _will_," the wizard said before he slid out the door in a blur. Susan raised an amused eyebrow.

"Poor man. You really did frighten him," she said, turning to Teatime.

"Don't forget the terms," he reminded her.

"Yes, yes—you 'reserve the right to frighten and intimidate'," she huffed, crossing her arms. "Why don't we get up to the roof, already?"

"That isn't the best of ideas, Susan. Your grandfather is up there; I'm in the middle of cheating Death—I don't think it's _wise _to do it under his nose."

"Or his granddaughter's," the schoolteacher countered.

"She's worth it," he grinned, and the smallest trace of a smile touched Susan's face.

"_I'm _going up, though," she said. "I have to make sure Granddad is alright. Not to mention, I haven't seen Lobsang in a long time."

Teatime crossed his arms in agitation, leaning up against the stone walls.

" '_Lobsang_' again. You certainly think well of him," he said levelly. His voice was almost a monotone, but _he..._ he looked rather peeved.

"We've been through a lot together," Susan replied.

Teatime sighed, walked up to the embers of the fire that had survived the water and lifted his now cool (or rather, lukewarm) eye from the ash.

"So have we," he commented nonchalantly, staring at the black orb with his good eye.

"_He's_ not a psychokiller."

"I haven't killed a single person in this life, Susan," he argued.

"But you _have _killed countless people."

"But then I was... born again, so to speak. Therefore you can't call me a killer if I haven't killed... _yet_."

"Arguing details isn't going to get you anywhere, Jonathon. I don't even see where you're trying to go."

He turned away from her for a second or two, and when he looked back (a crooked half-smile on his face) his glass eye was firmly in place.

"I've never understood fairytales," he said.

"_What?_" Susan called in surprise. "What does that have to do with any—"

"A princess is captured, a knight rescues her," he interrupted thoughtfully, "they fall in love and get married. But can you imagine them staying up all night, talking, arguing, and laughing? Can you imagine them fighting monsters side by side, or playing chess? Can you imagine them sharing secrets, or just exchanging their day's story over dinner? You aren't like a fairytale princess, Susan. You are Susan Sto-Helit, you are brave, and strong, and smart, and silly, and stubborn, and proud, and cynical, and a pain in the neck. That makes you wonderful."

Susan stared at him blankly for a few seconds, not quite sure if she had just heard what she'd thought she'd heard. Her stomach felt so light, and she wasn't sure if she was going to throw up or start flying. She considered considering everything, but then shortly after realized she should try to focus on _breathing_.

"I can imagine staying up all night talking to you. I can imagine fighting by your side... both _with_, and _against_. I can imagine playing chess with you, or sharing secrets with you. I can imagine being with you every day of every year for the rest of eternity."

When he'd stepped closer she wasn't sure, but Susan was distinctly aware of the fact that he was now under a foot away. He cocked his head curiously and slid the fingers of his left hand into her right, lacing them together. Her hand was distinctly cold, and very, very soft in his. It felt comforting, and… somehow completing.

"You'll die before eternity," she said coolly, attempting to ignore his warm, callused hand and the strange heat shooting up that arm.

"I'll find a way back to you. I can do anything."

She raised a single brow, but decided not to follow that line of conversation.

"_I'll _die before eternity."

He leaned forwards, barely whispering the words.

"I won't let you go."

Susan felt as if she were choking on her own heart as it beat faster and faster. The air was thick, and the Disc itself seemed to be slowing. She felt so dizzy, and was very frustrated that she couldn't stop her hand from tingling where he touched her. If you looked at her, you wouldn't be able to tell. She would only appear a little stiff. But Teatime was an expert at reading people (if not _understanding _what he read).

"I feel broken," she managed, and it was true. Her heart felt so empty all the sudden, so empty, yet swelling and filling and boiling and bubbling over.

He could feel her—_literally_. Her presence before him sent out an aura that he could sense, an aura that sent shivers down his spine. Teatime enjoyed power over others, he enjoyed the weakness people felt before him, but Susan was melting, and somewhere deep, deep, down, he realized, he was growing... _stronger_. He wanted her to grow strong as well, not melt, but couldn't explain why. It contradicted everything he had ever felt before... but he felt it. And Susan was the one to deny what _she _felt, not he, he knew.

He raised his right hand to her pale cheek.

"I'll make you whole," he replied confidently.

For a sixteenth of a second, he was afraid. It was an odd feeling, an unpleasant one, so he discarded it immediately. No, he wouldn't be afraid. Instead, he bridged the gap between them and kissed her.

_Fire_, was the first word that flew through her mind as his lips seared into hers. _Soft... _was the second, as she felt how... _gentle _he was. Cold, cruel, crazy, cheerful, brilliant... all those words described Jonathon Teatime, but _gentle?_ There was no denying it, though, as his thumb ghosted across her cheek and his lips fell back, their foreheads meeting in the middle. He grinned.

"You smell good," he whispered happily, then buried his nose into her neck as he pulled her close. Her hair tickled.

"Still jealous of Lobsang?" she asked quietly into his bright curls.

_Jealous_, Teatime thought, _yes, that must be the word. I hadn't known I was capable of such an emotion. It's terribly… _unpleasant_._

"Jealous?" he said in mock astonishment as he pushed her near an arm's length away, keeping a firm grip on her shoulders. He immediately regretted it, but knew it'd be good for affect, "_Me, _jealous of the Lord of Time? I think not; Susan just let me kiss her—didn't you hear? I expect kings to be begging for my place."

Susan couldn't help but laugh here, and Teatime couldn't help but think how pretty it sounded.

"I hear she ran a poker through you as well," Susan said through her smile.

"Details, details," Teatime said as he pressed his forehead again to hers. He liked doing that, he realized. Susan reached up hesitantly and brushed his cheek, her left arm wrapped around his neck.

"I feel so happy and dizzy," she whispered.

"Am I doing that?" he asked curiously, suddenly very interested in one of her curling curls. Her hair was very float-ee and light at the moment.

"I think so."

"Does anyone else do that?"

"No."

"Good," he grinned, then breathed in deeply and stepped back.

"You can go now."

Her eyes narrowed.

"Just like that...?"

"Oh, I'll be waiting for you down here."

"You aren't worrying about Lobsang?"

"No," he said simply. "You're all mine now."

"And what if I'm not?" she asked, slightly agitated by his choice of words (Susan was her own, for goodness sake!).

His knife was by his cheek as he grinned.

"Then I'll become a 'psychokiller' again."

"Jonathon..." she said in a low, warning voice.

"I'm only teasing, Susan." He leaned forwards and slowly kissed her cheek. "Come back soon," he whispered into her ear.

She smiled the tiniest of smiles, shaking her head.

"What is the quickest way there?"

"As far as I know," he answered, "there should be some stairs to the roof at the far left of the hall."

"Then I'll be back soon."

"Good."

Susan smiled one last time, and left through the door the wizard had exited by.

Teatime grinned.

He felt so happy.


	11. Coming to Terms with Reality

**Author's Notes:**** I think that there are only going to be two more solid chapters and this story will be DONE. However, my twisted mind has come up with an interesting premise for a sequel, so if people were interested you might see that pop up at some point after this is completed. Also, Lobsang shows up here, and I've never, ever read him, so I apologize if he's terribly out of character. I hope you all enjoy this chapter—thank you so much for reading.**

**Death is back, the Rules are met, and Susan gets grouchy again.**

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the Discworld, never have, never will—I just wish I owned a copy of all the books.

Chapter Eleven

Coming to Terms with Reality

Susan was trying very hard to keep a foolish grin off her face. Her lips just kept turning upwards and she couldn't stop them, not matter how hard she tried. It was _infuriating._

That wasn't the only thing going through her mind, though:

_I'm so happy! I'm so happy! I'm so happy!_

_ What is wrong with me? What is wrong with me? What is wrong with me?_

_ Teatime just kissed me. Teatime just kissed me! TEATIME JUST KISSED ME! _(whether this thought was ecstatic, infuriated, or simply _shocked _is up for debate)

Mixed emotions were attached with each individual idea, and she was feeling very confused. Still, presiding over all the confusion, all of her scrambled thoughts, she had never been so darn happy.

That only confused her even more.

*

Teatime waited until Susan's footsteps were no longer in ear shot, and made his way to the window. Just because he didn't want Death seeing him didn't mean that he wasn't going to _watch_. He could wait, and he could be patient when he had to, but when there was something more interesting to do (such as watching the utter confusion on the roof and Susan coming to whip 'em into shape—_that _would be a spectacle) of course he wouldn't sit and do nothing. Waiting could be so _boring_.

Gliding up with the grace of a cat, he peered over the crenulations to see the goings on before him. No Susan yet; just fifty-some people all talking at once. How disappointing.

Susan... such a sensible, strong, name. Sensible Susan. He loved that about her—how practical she was. And then that short temper of hers. She was so _silly _when she was angry.

_Thank goodness Susan can't read my thoughts,_ he thought wryly, _she'd kill me. Again._

He also particularly loved the way she smiled, because the rare times she did it felt like it was just for him. A smile, small and sweet, for Jonathon Teatime. Who ever smiled for him save her?

The answer, of course, was _her._

*

Death was a little confused. First he had been at the masquerade, with Persephone, Susan, and that crazed assassin, under attack by some scarlet-clad men, and then he was here, on the top of a keep.

_I MUST HAVE DISAPPEARED AGAIN... _he thought thoughtfully.

"Death!" a woman with dark, purply-red hair called as she ran up to him.

UM... _PERSEPHONE?_ he asked in surprise, recognizing her friendly smile.

"Do you have any idea how we got here? Last thing I remember, I was with Susan and Mr. Teatime, trying to wake up a wizard to reverse the spell-gone-awry that has caused things to disappear, and then I was here..." she hesitated, "I also have this vague feeling of being short, and all these shapes sailing by, and this _urge _to find _food..._" she shook her head, brushing the thought aside. "Silly, isn't it?"

DID YOU SAY _SUSAN_ _AND MR. TEATIME?!_

"Yes...?"

IS SHE ALRIGHT?!

"Thanks to that assassin, believe it or not. He rescued her from the dungeon down there before I could make it."

WHY?

"Um... I'm assuming so she wouldn't be in a jail for the rest of her life?" she guessed curiously, a little confused. All these people she'd been dealing with really were very _odd_. Then again, who could expect _an assassin with one eye_, _Death _and _Death's granddaughter __**TO **_be normal?

TEATIME RESCUED SUSAN, it was half a question, half a statement, and half an 'I'm trying to come to terms with this are you sure I didn't mishear you' remark. If something could have three halves.

"Yes."

AND HE HAD NO ULTERIOR MOTIVE. Copy and paste from above, please.

She shrugged.

"I really don't know. You'd have to _ask __**him**_."

THIS IS MOST CERTAINLY STRANGE...

"Um, excuse me, Death, but I have a few questions..."

WHAT? ARE YOU A JOURNALIST OR SOMETHING? he asked, attempting to make a joke in human fashion, rather proud at how it came out.

If only he knew.

"Well—"

"Granddad!" Susan called happily, coming from the stairs that had led upwards and running towards her grandfather. "Granddad, I'm so glad your alright!"

Death would have blinked if he had had eyelids.

EXCUSE ME?

"I'm so glad you're alright."

UM... I'M GLAD YOU'RE ALRIGHT, TOO. WHAT HAPPENED?

Susan quickly explained the story behind the spell.

"...and we've finally managed to reverse it."

_WE?_

Susan stiffened. She _had _promised not to mention Teatime to Death... outright, at least...

"Persphone and I."

"What about—" the journalist started.

"Persphone and I," Susan repeated firmly. "She turned into a peacock before we finished, though. And the wizard. Timothy Ortan helped as well."

"A _peacock!?_"

WHAT ABOUT MR. TEATIME?

"Um... he helped."

WHERE IS HE NOW?

Susan blinked slowly.

"Why do you ask?" she stalled.

I MUST COLLECT HIM.

Susan considered arguing that since the assassin's death had been indirectly caused by the Auditors of Reality breaking the **Rules**, and that all things caused by that **Rule **breaking should be reversed, then Teatime should be revived, but decided that reasoning on the his behalf would appear... _odd_, and she wasn't quite ready for that stage yet.

"But he isn't dead. He's perfectly alive," she tried stiffly.

LAST TIME I CHECKED, HE HAD A POKER GOING THROUGH HIM.

"A _poker—!?_" the peacock called in astonishment.

"You're a bit out of date."

HOW SO?

"Um... well, he became teatime—" Susan started.

EXCUSE ME?

"I kept calling him 'teatime' so he became a second teatime for a short amount of time. When he reappeared he was alive."

"That's not right," a new voice said. Several heads snapped in that direction to see a woman with her hair in a tight, high bun, a turned up (both biologically and of conscious choice) nose, a black parasol and a gray, proper dress. "He should have returned to his ghost state after his re-physicallization by decree of rule three-hundred-forty-three point six six."

AND WHO ARE YOU?

"I'm the **Rules**," she answered properly.

"_What?_" Susan asked, not quite sure if she'd heard her right.

"I am the anthropomorphic personification of the **Rules**. My name is Ruth."

I DON'T BELIEVE I'VE HEARD OF YOU, MISS RUTH.

"I hadn't existed until a few moments ago. You see, _you _were death, not Death, and Time was time, not Time, and I was the mere mention of the **Rules**, not an actual personification. When the spell fixed you all, the governing force of the universe experienced a glitch and accidentally created me. And I intend to correct that," she added, "I very much do, but first I must correct all the other aberrations and rule breakages before I do away with myself. It is my duty, as the **Rules**."

Susan, Death, and a very confused journalist all exchanged a worried glance. This _really _didn't look good.

*

_Isn't that _sweet _of her? _Teatime thought idly. He could read Susan well, and, in her own way, she was trying to protect him. She didn't even tell Death where he was right off the bat.

Then there was this Ruth. He'd have to avoid _her _now, _too_, wouldn't he? Or she'd make him a _ghost _again. It was _so _nice having a physical form once more—he had no intentions of losing it. Teatime took in a long, deep sigh. This was just _lovely_.

About then a young man came up to Susan with a confused expression plastered to his face.

"Lobsang?" she asked in a friendly (by Susan standards) voice.

"Hi, Susan. It's good to see you again... Where am I exactly?"

There were so many people on the roof, talking all at once. It was no surprise it'd taken him so long to find her. But Teatime wasn't thinking about that. Right at the moment, he had these specific thoughts going through his head:

**A. **I wish he'd found her sooner so this would be over with.

**B. **I wish he'd find her later so I wouldn't have to watch this now.

**C. **_I wish he wouldn't find her at all!_

Unfortunately, wishing doesn't do much good.

"This... this is Mordred's keep," Susan said. "I'll explain everything to you eventually, but not now... I've just gotten through doing so with my grandfather, and I have a bit of a headache. It's been a very, very confusing day."

The assassin hoped it'd been a _good _day, too.

"I understand," Lobsang answered, nodding with great empathy.

EXCUSE ME, SUSAN, Death said. BUT REGARDING MR. TEATIME...

"Right. Um, well, he had a body when he reappeared. He rescued me from a dungeon and offered to help me with the spell."

"Susan?" Lobsang asked in confusion, "Are you talking about that assassin you told me about from Hogswatch—"

"No, no, no!" Ruth called in agitation. "That simply _can't _be right; rule three-hundred-forty-three point—"

"If one of you could possibly explain to me _what _you're talking about—" the journalist started.

SUSAN, WE REALLY MUST SPEAK MORE OF—

The schoolteacher was just about to scream EVERYBODY SHUT UP! in her **Voice**, but a whole brigade of armed men (in scarlet) came up the steps leading to the roof and that pretty much did the trick. Unfortunately, after a short spurt of silence, _screaming _ensued.

Susan wasn't one of the screamers, though. She was only standing in confusion on the edge of the roof, between two of the crenulations—coincidentally, also directly above Teatime, who was at that very moment observing all the men gathering people together like sheep dogs. Lobsang raised his hand to stop time, and looked fairly shocked when _nothing happened_.

Teatime, realizing that things weren't looking so good, grabbed Susan's ankle and pulled her over the edge. It would be difficult, he knew, but he could do it—he was certain. So, while the schoolteacher was in mid fall, he slide through the window, turned, grabbed her waist and set her on her feet in the stone room before she had time to _scream_. His timing was faster than it needed to be, and he felt rather pleased with himself as she tried to get oriented once more.

"_What _just happened?" she called in confusion and (mostly because she was in confusion) anger, still trying to catch her breath.

He cocked his head thoughtfully, a little surprised she couldn't figure it out.

"I pulled you down."

"You could have warned me!"

"Susan, if you had heard my voice, or felt a tap on your ankle, what is the first thing you would have done?"

"I would have looked down towards—"

"_Exactly_. I was hoping to be... _discrete_. You, Susan, can stand out even better than you can blend in at times."

Susan huffed and crossed her arms in agitation.

"So you weren't able to stop them?" he asked.

"You expected that I could? They came out of nowhere—"

"You _did _know they were coming, didn't you?" the assassin asked in surprise.

"Um, _no_."

"_Susan!_" he called, "I'm so terribly... _disappointed_."

"Why don't you just cut to the chase, Teatime?" she growled.

He raised his brows, then continued.

"The _wizard. _I couldn't kill him because of your _rule, _so of _course _he told Mordred all about us and the people on the roof. I assumed you'd assume the same thing."

"_WHY_ would I have let him go if I'd assumed that?"

"Because that's what you _do_. You don't hurt people who could turn against you, who could cause you trouble."

"From my recollection I hurt _you _pretty bad," she said grouchily.

"_Potential _dangers. You take care of those that have already shown themselves, but you ignore the _potentials_. I've never understood it—and it's not just you. So many people _do _that, it's a wonder man kind hasn't killed itself off yet."

"It's _called _'the benefit of the doubt'," (technically, 'the benefit of the doubt' refers to people possibly being innocent _after _a wrong has been committed, but the schoolteacher felt the phrase rang true here as well). "Just because someone _might _betray you is no reason to hurt..." her eyes flicked left and right for half a second, "...or _kill _them, _Tea_time."

He was behind her, cold knife at her throat and below his face.

"Teh-ah-tim-eh," he said in her ear ever so softly, yet somehow each syllable felt like a crack of thunder. "You and I have _rules,_ Susan. I've been good enough not to break them; why don't _you?_"

He lowered the blade and rested his chin on her shoulder.

"Now what?" he asked curiously, any darkness or intimidation absent from his voice and replaced with his usual light cheer. "I suppose you'll want to rescue them?"

Susan blinked. He could be so confusing sometimes. She stepped away from him, letting his chin slide off her shoulder, and turned towards him as she thought of a response.

"Yes," she settled with (her creative side was a little slow at the moment). "Where do you think they'll have taken them?"

"There were so very many..." the assassin said thoughtfully, black and white eyes gazing at nothing in particular (still gazing, never the less). He glanced up at Susan and took a step towards her. "I assume either the throne room for questioning or the dungeon," he paused, looking her up and down curiously, "You look so stiff."

"Perhaps I do."

"Are you thinking about how I kissed you?"

"I don't see how that's relevant at the moment."

"Do you regret it?"

"Please, can we _focus_, Jonathon?"

"You do, don't you? And you're afraid of me. You think I'd actually hurt you."

"I'm _not _afraid of you," she said darkly.

He cocked his head thoughtfully.

"You probably should be," he sighed. "I could kill you before you could blink, if I wanted to."

"I don't think that's true."

The slightest trace of a smile crossed his lips.

"You always did deny what you couldn't control..." he cocked his head thoughtfully, "maybe you should try believing in something for a change."

"I don't see why we're having this conversation. Please, can we stay on topic?"

"I thought this was the topic."

"The topic _was _trying to rescue my grandfather and—"

"_Lobsang_," the name came out sounding sour, "and the others, whosoever they may be." He paused, chewing on the thought, then perked up. "Well, then—this should be _fun_."

_He's not even being _sarcastic, Susan thought disbelievingly.

"Don't you think so, Susan?"

*

Death's powers weren't working. He couldn't fade, or go through walls, or anything, as a matter of fact, and it was getting on his nerves. If he had any, that is. So it was that the lord of the end of all things found himself being held captive by brief mortals along with a lot of other brief mortals. If he spoke in such language, he probably would have thought 'You've _got_ to be kidding me' in big, more-capital-than-usual letters. But Death doesn't think in such a way.

Currently, he was trying to come to sorts with the fact that Susan had just fallen over the edge of the roof and _survived_. He could sense she was alive, and just below him, but he was having trouble figuring out how she got through the window mid-fall. It was most confusing. He'd already told the others she was alright, and they were finding it just as confusing as he was. Not to mention that his sense of where Susan was was slowly, slowly fading until he couldn't tell where _anyone _was anymore.

"Do you think you could answer some of those questions, now?" Perephone asked quietly. Why she was wondering about questions when everyone was being herded down a long hall who-_knows_-where was a mystery to him.

UM, COULD THAT WAIT FOR A BETTER TIME?

"I'm not sure if there's going to _be _a better time..." she responded sardonically. "Why didn't you tell me you were Death before?"

PERSEPHONE, I'M NOT SURE IF I UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.

"Susan told me—be it indirectly. I _know_."

OH, Death thought, realizing she wasn't referring to his 'costume'. In the slightest. THIS IS MOST AWKWARD. I APOLOGIZE.

"No need to," she replied, smiling. "But, if we could get to those questions—"

_ARE _YOU A JOURNALIST? He really was beginning to wonder.

She sighed.

"...Yes."

OH, DEAR.

" 'Oh dear' indeed," Lobsang grumbled.

"Quiet up there!" one of the guards at the back of the line called (a third were in the front and two thirds in the back, sandwiching the group together so none could escape). Persephone, Lobsang and Death let out a long sigh.

Ruth had been silent the whole time, nose in the air, as her little umbrella circled properly. She had a terribly _pompous _air to her, and probably would have gotten on some of their nerves if anyone had been paying any attention to her.

*

He was just staring at her. His conversation, his suggestions, his input and words were the same as ever, but he wouldn't stop staring. His black and white eyes were like knives of their own, piercing and chilling her.

They were sitting across from one another and attempting to come up with a plan of sorts, but Teatime mentioned that they had to figure out if they were in the dungeons or not before they could actually act. Susan had reluctantly noticed the logic of his reasoning, and they had continued with that train of thought. As apparently Mordred didn't post guards at the dungeon, it seemed there would be the most logical place to check first. Then they could come up with a plan with their help if they were there, and if not, they had lost nothing.

Susan tried her best to be practical and senseable, but she was having a hard time thinking straight with that terrible cold gaze of his boring into her.

"Are you alright, Susan?" he asked curiously in his odd, high voice, noticing her shift uncomfortably.

"There you go again," she said stiffly.

"What do you mean?"

"You're getting off topic again."

"Is there something wrong with that?"

"When we're trying to save living, breathing, _people_, yes."

Teatime sighed gently. He wasn't exactly sure when he had realized that he actually felt something for Susan. He'd thought about dismissing the feeling, throwing it away so he could think clearly, but it felt so nice he simply couldn't bare to. And then there was that one moment when she'd let him kiss her. He had never felt so completely marvelous.

Somehow, for some reason, with Susan he felt whole. She didn't complete him like his Marly had; no, his sister had been his other half, like a board broken in two that was pieced back together. Susan was that random piece of a puzzle that actually fits with another piece even though it shouldn't, and formed a completely different picture than the one the puzzle should create.

Still, however she did it, Susan completed him, and made him feel wonderful. But did he make her feel wonderful? He'd thought he had. She had seemed so happy then; why now so cold? Did she regret it? He'd asked her, but hadn't gotten a direct answer. If she regretted it... if she did he would be broken.

No, that most certainly wouldn't do.

"I don't see why that can't wait," he said.

"Did you _hear _me?—people are in _danger_. That's why."

"You certainly care a lot about people you don't know."

"Most people _with common decency _do. But at the _moment_,_ I'm _worried about _my grandfather_, and—"

"Please, don't list them off. I remember; I only meant in general."

"Topic, Teatime. Please, let's get back on it."

"They can wait a few _minutes_."

"Will you ever stop bugging me about this?"

"When we talk."

She sighed in exasperation and leaned against the stone wall behind her.

"Would you do it again?" he asked, sliding towards her curiously.

"Do _what?_"

"Kiss me."

"From my memory _you _kissed _me_," she answered grouchily, somehow finding the ceiling very, very interesting.

"You kissed me back." He waited, but she didn't reply. "You haven't answered my question, Susan. ...Susan?"

She raised her head and gazed at him steadily, shaking her head in exasperation.

"You can be a real pain, Jonathon," she moaned.

Teatime shifted beside her. She didn't even flinch as he appeared. The assassin stared intently at the side of her face for a few seconds, his face very thoughtful. "Why are you so mad at me, Susan?" he asked in innocent confusion.

"I don't know what you're talking—"

He leaned forwards, lips less than an inch from her ear.

"_Suuuuuuuuuu-saaaaaaaan_..." he sang softly.

Little chills went down her spine as Susan skewed her eyes shut and braced herself to keep from shivering. She really wished he would stop doing that (on hindsight, she probably should have put that in their rules). Somehow, though, the feeling was strangely exhilarating—that was probably what she hated most of all.

"Do you care to continue?" he asked gently.

Slowly, she opened her eyes and took in a deep breath, finally meeting his gaze as he slowly leaned away.

"I'm worried, Jonathon," she at last. "I'm worried for Lobsang, and that journalist, and for myself and for you. I'm worried, and you don't seem to _care_."

"Of course I care," he sounded surprised. "That's why I've been trying to _talk _to you."

"I just want everyone to be safe and to get this over with. It's impossible when you keep _doing _that. I want to be done and you won't focus and—"

"Oh, Susan, that's where you're going wrong," he said, shaking his head slightly.

"What do you mean?" she asked, her brow furrowing.

"You'll _never _be done. _Never_. When you're finished, something new will pop up and you'll have to start again. Life is one big, sometimes boring adventure, and it never ends until you die. And if you want to be _done_, you might as well jump out that window right now," he paused, "but please don't," he added, a little worried.

Susan raised a brow.

"That doesn't mean I can't _try_."

"_Or _you could make the adventure the _fun _part. You have to learn to love the ride, because you'll never get off, Susan."

"Love the ride, eh?" she shook her head. "I'm getting an inspirational speech from a crazed—not to mention should-be-_dead—_assassin. What is the disc coming to?"

He leaned forwards and kissed her cheek, sliding his hand into hers as he pulled her to her feet effortlessly.

"Come on, Susan, let's go. I don't think planning any more is going to help us much—but please, get out of this sour mood..._ won't you?_ I really want to kiss you again and I'm afraid if I do when you're like this you'll hit me."

"You could dodge it easily," she pointed out as they made their way to the door.

"Yes, but then you'd get _oh _so _angry_."

"Mmhmm, that would be a side affect."

"How can I solve this puzzle, then?" he asked curiously.

Susan appeared to be thoughtful as they approached the dungeons.

"Well, there really seems to be only one solution," she said at last, nodding. "_I'll _have to kiss _you_."

"Right now?"

"How about after we save everyone? It'll give you something to look forwards to."

Teatime doubled his pace, practically dragging the schoolteacher along with him.


	12. A Gaping Hole

**Author's Notes:**** Well, this is it; only one more chapter after this, and ****_Literally_ is complete. This chapter and the next have a couple references to the 'prequel' of this story (_Marly Had a Brother;_ if you put this link after the url you should reach the story easily enough: **/s/5712548/1/Marly_Had_a_Brother**), and I'd recommend reading it before you read chapter twelve and thirteen, though you should still enjoy them well enough even if you don't. **

**This chapter was particularly hard to write, and at one point I was actually writing 'blah, blah, blah' (_literally!_) because I had such a severe case of writer's block. Don't worry, though—the next chapter is pretty much done, I just have to edit it. I'll post it up when I get some reviews, okay? **

**Pokers are throne, feelings are felt, and is paper written on... enjoy! **

**Disclaimer: **I don't own the Discworld. I often wish I could create such a wonderful universe, but I doubt that's true... aw well, I'll just read 'em and write fanfiction off 'em until my own original works are done.

Chapter Twelve

A Gaping Hole

Teatime had the lock picked faster than she could blink. The gate slid open smoothly, without the slightest creek. She'd have to ask him how he did that some day. But for now...

"There's no one in here," she observed, glancing into each individual pit.

The assassin's eyes scanned the room carefully, seeing into the shadows and searching for any sign of life. But there was none.

"I must assume then," he said slowly in his high, off voice, "that they are currently in the throne room. Would you agree, Susan?"

She nodded.

"That's a reasonable enough guess. But _all fifty of them?_"

"It was a very big room."

Susan shrugged.

"Let's be off, then," she said, starting her brisk, long strides. The assassin watched her for a few seconds before taking a small, smooth step himself and popping up beside her.

*

THIS IS THE DANCE FLOOR, Death observed, recognizing the ballroom from where he had disappeared.

Lobsang snapped in fingers furiously, rather agitated that he couldn't make time _stop_. For goodness sake, he _was _time. Why didn't it just _WORK?_

MY POWERS ARE CURRENTLY UNWORKING AS WELL, LOBSANG.

"He has powers?" the peacock asked curiously.

LOBSANG IS THE LORD OF TIME.

"Oh!" she called brightly, "Maybe you could answer a few—"

"Now really isn't the time," Lobsang said, then turned to Death. "Any idea why that is?"

"By order of rule four-hundred-seventy-three point seven-dash-one-one once certain anthropomorphic personifications regain a physical state their powers are temporarily suspended to give time for their cells to find their correct positions and functioning," Ruth said, not even bothering to turn to them.

"What'd I say about being _quiet!?_" a guard called again.

Lobsang rolled his eyes, but none of them spoke any longer. The journalist, however, had the bright idea of pulling out her notepad and tapping her quill on it.

_We could __write__, couldn't we? _she wrote on the pad, then offered the feather to any of them.

_Clever, Miss...?_ Lobsang responded.

_Pearle. Persephone Pearle, at your service._

_ WE WERE DISCUSSING POWERS, _Death wrote. _MISS RUTH, WHEN CAN WE EXPECT THEM TO RETURN? _

It _was _rather pathetic for Death and the Lord of Time (not to mention several other anthropomorphic personifications who were thoroughly peeved) to actually be _held captive _and be unable to use their gifts.

_What's with the capital letters? _Persphone wrote before Death had a chance to get Ruth's attention.

_UM... INSTINCT. I'M NOT EXACTLY SURE WHY._

_Hmm. _

What possible use could come out of writing 'hmm' I don't know.

Death rewrote his question, then (with considerable effort) managed to get Ruth's attention.

"Hmm?" she asked, wrinkling her nose slightly.

The anthropomorphic personification of death held out the pad. Her nose wrinkled even more, and she took the quill and notepad as if their were muddy boots. When she wrote, her handwriting was smooth, fancy, swirly, and _very _official_._

_According to Rule #473.7-12, your and Miss. Sto-Helit's powers will be completely restored by seven o'clock, _her sharp, tidy writing stated.

_SUSAN DOESN'T HAVE HER POWERS? BUT SHE DIDN'T DISAPPEAR._

Ruth rolled her eyes.

_No, she did not. But her powers are the same as—albeit somewhat weaker than—yours. She is also partly Death. Because of this, the magic suspending your capabilities is, _her writing paused for a moment as she thought, _shall we say 'leaking' and affecting __most__ of hers as well._

_ AT WHAT POINT WILL OUR POWERS RETURN, ONCE MORE?_

_ Seven o'clock, _Ruth wrote, returning the pad as she raised her parasol and nose once more.

Death nodded and turned to the lord of time.

_ WHAT TIME IS IT, LOBSANG? _

_ 6:37._

_ TWENTY-THREE MINUTES, THEN. JUST TWENTY-THREE MINUTES AND WE CAN GET OUT OF THIS MESS._

_ I wonder where Susan is... _the journalist wrote idly.

_SHE'LL BE FINE. SUSAN IS A STRONG, SMART YOUNG LADY AND I AM EXCEEDINGLY PROUD OF HER. SHE'S PROBABLY COMING TO HELP US AT THIS VERY MOMENT._

_ If she is,_ Lobsang wrote, _we have absolutely nothing to worry about._

_ OH, I COULD THINK OF ONE THING... _

Death had _one _crazed assassin on his mind at the moment.

*

Winding their way through the stone halls, the chill still fell like a light weight blanket (a very, very _cold _blanket) over them. Still, they'd been in this castle for so many hours that the damp cold no longer brought them discomfort, especially since the two had enjoyed the feeling in the first place. No, they did not fear the lack of warmth—they welcomed it, taking in deep breaths of the sharp air.

The chill was not what was unnerving Susan. It was the fact that her hair wasn't moving. Just to see, she snapped her right hand sharply—the sound echoed throughout the stone keep (causing Teatime to glare at her), but nothing happened. Time remained in place, it did not stop. Immediately, she remembered Lobsang snapping his fingers on the roof earlier. She hadn't noticed anything then, either.

"My powers aren't working," she said, pausing in her stride.

The assassin cocked his head thoughtfully.

"Shame..." he sighed. "They most certainly could have been useful. Still, I wouldn't worry," Teatime said, starting his smooth steps once more, "...we won't be needing them."

"Are you so sure about that?"

"Why not be?"

Susan cocked her head; he certainly had a point.

At last, they reached the huge ballroom. Teatime offered his arm, and Susan took it. Two small steps later they were across the long dance floor and before the door to the throne room. Teatime frowned slightly, brow furrowing.

"_Now _would have been a time your powers would have been... _useful,_" he said thoughtfully. "No matter. Susan, I'm going to open the door, then you are going to go through and stick to the wall. Make it to a corner somewhere—_quietly, _if you can? I'll go another way. We'll watch for a while."

"_Then _what will we do?"

He grinned.

"I'll think of something."

"In a split second?"

"I can do a lot of thinking in a split second."

"Of course you can," she said sarcastically.

You and I know better.

Teatime just shook his head with a small smile as he slid the door open a crack, voices flowing out like water from a no-longer-dammed river. He gestured urgently with his head, and Susan passed through the door and hugged the wall until she reached a corner. She didn't even notice the barely ajar door close, or see Teatime move, but when she looked back he was gone and the door was shut tight. There hadn't even been a _sound_.

The schoolteacher shook her head, a small smile forming on her lips. He was _good_.

"...exactly _how _did they get on the roof of my keep again?" the lazy, slightly agitated voice of Mordred echoed throughout the hall. Death, Lobsang, Persphone, Ruth, and many, many others filled the throne room directly before the actual throne, most of which looking utterly confused.

Susan glanced around, but didn't see Teatime anywhere. She did, however, notice a new fireplace that hadn't been there last time she'd been, and a considerable amount less of guards than there had been a minute ago.

_They'd better be _alive_, Teatime,_ were the words rolling through Susan's mind, _or you'll wish you _had _died. _She rethought that. _Or at least hadn't come back to life._

Timothy Ortan, the wizard, spoke nervously.

"I told you about the spell—"

"Yes, yes, but why my _roof?_"

"They fell out of the sky towards where the spell was cast—the roof was just in the way," he explained quickly.

"_Now _what do we do with them?" the lord wondered thoughtfully.  
"Um—"

"I wasn't talking to you, Wizard."

"Oh. ...I'll just be going then?"

Mordred rolled his eyes.

During this dialogue, something very strange was happening. The crowd was getting smaller. Most people wouldn't notice this, but Susan had taken it upon herself to count the individuals there, if only out of boredom. But, as she continued to examine the group, she realized that people _were _disappearing—shortly after a curly, blond head _appeared _unscrupulously in the middle of the crowd.

_He's shifting them_, she realized, _one at a time_.

Throughout her adventures here, Susan was feeling rather wimpy. She didn't like being powerless, over powered, not in control, or anything along those lines. But it seemed so far that either she was sitting around doing nothing, Teatime was overpowering her, or Teatime was rescuing her. It was really getting on her nerves, and all she wanted was to _do_ something. She wanted to be tough skewer-you-with-a-poker-Susan again. Not this meek, 'I'm in love'-nonsense-Susan.

Now that was a weird thought. She most certainly _was not _in love. No, not at all. Not in the slightest. She was... um... she found him _intriguing. _Yes, that was it. He was interesting, and at the moment his help would be valuable, so—

"Hi, Susan," a voice whispered in her ear. Her eyes widened, but she managed not to jump. She swerved her head towards and glared at him.

"You could have announced yourself!" she hissed.

He blinked.

"I just did."

Susan thought a few seconds. He could be so practical, but insane at the same time. It made her wonder... if she was able to get into his mind, would it actually make sense?

_Nah_, she decided.

"What were you doing earlier?" she asked.

"I was trying to shift some people away. I got quite a few—including a very talkative tourist. At least he was better than that... _toothfairy_."

"Now what are we going to do?"

"I think there's a problem, Susan."

"What's that?"

"The voices have stopped."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," he said, never taking his eyes from hers, "that the whole throne room is watching us."

Susan turned slowly, seeing a very amused audience watching them.

"Oh."

"I must admit," Mordred said, "though I can see you both, I can't hear a word you're saying. You most definitely have _that _part down."

"Mordred," she said, stepping forwards. She wasn't quite sure _why _she said it, but it definitely makes for a good affect—don't you think?

"Journalist."

"How many times do I have to tell you? I'm _not _a journalist!"  
"Then what are you, pray tell?"

"Honestly," she said, glaring, I DON'T EVEN KNOW.

Funny, that she could use her voice but none of her other powers seemed to be working.

There was a silence while Mordred tried to gain his composure. His face had completely contorted and he had leapt back in his seat—not like how Teatime handled her **Voice**. No, the assassin hardly _blinked _when Susan **Voiced **him. He was one of the few people that weren't particularly phased by it. If that had been the main thought in her head (rather than '_What on the Disc were we thinking just waltzing in here with no plan? Teatime, I'm going to KILL YOU!_'), she would have smiled. She rather liked that he didn't mind that bit about her.

"Um-I-er," Mordred started sputtering, "um—arrest her!"

It was like a default setting, the way those final words came out of his mouth. In fact, Mordred had been saying '_Arrest (insert pronoun here)!_' almost three times a week. It was becoming a very comforting, normal experience that always helped to sooth his nerves.

If this were a movie (rather than a lowly fanfiction), we would just have had a close up on Mordred's face as those confused/terrified words had left his fumbling mouth. Slowly, we would have swerved and zoomed back approximately two feet. That second camera motion would have revealed one crazed assassin, holding a knife up to the lord's side. How he'd _gotten _there, we'd never learn.

"I'd advise you to take back that order," came the soft, cheerful voice of Jonathon Teatime.

Mordred's fists were turning white from clutching his armrests, but he slowly released them and relaxed as he attempted to calm himself.

"I keep that order."

Teatime cocked his head in confusion.

"You do understand that I'm going to kill you."

"No, you're not."

The assassin had a slight urge to kill him then and there (if only for the irony and poetic aestheticism of it), but he was a terribly curious soul. Not quite literally, as he had a solid body once more, but still, he was very, very curious. Why didn't he think he was going to kill him?

"Why not?" he wondered thoughtfully.

"I had that wizard conjure me a vision of my death," he glanced down at the knife, "this wasn't it."

"Oh. Well, you should get a new wizard."

Teatime slid the knife forwards, breaking each layer of the lord's clothing.

And then he remembered, stopping just before he penetrated flesh.

_"If we're going to be a team," Susan continued, "I have to set a few rules. __First of all, I don't want you to hold me at knife point. Ever. ......._

_ "....................Second, I don't want you to kill anyone without my express permission."_

Did this count? Certainly, they were moving towards their goal (that being freeing the prisoners), but Susan had a complex disorder known to the Discworld as 'morals'. He had never fully understood these strange 'morals', so he could never quite predict how people would feel about the things he did.

Someone was trying to sneak up behind him, but he really didn't want to think about them at the moment. Couldn't they see he was _busy?_

As he could see it, there were only two options:

**A. **Kill him.

**Possible Outcomes:**

** 1.** Susan doesn't mind and everything works out.

**2. **Susan doesn't mind and everything goes to ruin (unlikely, putting his and her expertise into the equation).

**3: **Susan minds and kills him. AGAIN (unlikely, as they'd been getting along rather well recently. Compared to previous standards. E.g. her killing him).

**4: **Susan minds and—

"Oh no..." he said softly, but somehow it echoed throughout the room as the sword slid through him. It felt like fire, and tiny tears of pain were gathering by his eyes. But that wasn't what upset him.

First off, he was terribly disappointed in himself. Most people made it throughout life without being killed at all—he'd now been killed _twice_. How _pathetic _was that?

Second of all, how could he have let that guard get so close behind him? That was just _lame_. _LAME_. So out of character, too. He blamed Susan. She distracted him with all her contradictions, layers, and mysteries.

_Then again, if she wasn't so intriguing I probably wouldn't be in love with her._

There he smiled. Yes, he was most definitely in love. He'd never really loved someone before—oh yes, he'd loved Marly, but Marly was the other half of his soul, she wasn't _someone else_. Susan... Susan was brilliant and beautiful and smart and silly and brave and a big pain. How wonderful.

Thirdly, he was going to miss out on that kiss Susan had promised him. That was almost worth crying for in itself.

After he had completed all this thought, Susan's brain had just finished registering that he had just been stabbed as the clock struck seven times. It wasn't that she was slow (though he _was_ fast), but her brain really, really didn't want to see that at this point, so it kept trying to block it out, while her eyes kept saying "nope, that definitely happened. Listen to me, STUPID BRAIN" (yes, the last part _was _in the **Voice**).

It almost felt like the sword had gone through _her, _it hurt so badly.

"No," she said softly, completely and totally denying what her brain had finally resigned to telling her.

_Nope, that definitely happened—listen to me, STUPID SUSAN! _her brain called in agitation.

"...not again," Teatime finished, shaking his head sadly as he stared at the point coming out of his chest.

NOT RIGHT! Susan screamed. She was having a hard time forming coherent _thoughts_, let alone coherent _sentences_. NO!

Teatime glanced at her, the smallest of smiles flickered across his face for half a second.

"You always _did _deny what you didn't like and couldn't control..."

He shook his head before falling backwards. The hilt jabbed further up into his back, pressing so hard against him. The blade slid through his middle, wrenching and ripping up his insides. At least it wasn't as bad as the poker, which had been all rusty.

Mordred glanced around.

"How come no one is arresting her?"

About then the guards started towards Susan, but she wasn't paying attention, acknowledging, or even thinking about them at the moment. She was trying to deny her heart, which had just shattered into seven thousand tiny pieces. She was trying to deny the fact that her chest felt like it was collapsing on itself. The fact that the world was growing blurry with her tears.

He was a bloody assassin. She didn't care if he died.

DON'T YOU DARE DIE, _TEA_TIME! she screeched.

_Fireplace. _She saw a fireplace.

More importantly: _poker. _

_ She saw a poker._

She lunged at it as the scarlet clad men came towards her (surprisingly slowly), and, in one smooth motion so reminiscent of a Hogswatch three years ago, lifted it from its stand and flung it outwards to that evil lord who'd indirectly killed a psychokiller (_how dare he?!_) like one would throw a frisbee. But it didn't spin, it flew straight and true, spearing Mordred in the heart.

"Well," he said, "that's what it looked like. A poker, poking out of my chest. The wizard could have told me _who __**threw **_the darn thing."

Everyone left in the room was feeling a little awkward. The guards, not quite sure if their lord was dying, dead, or just injured weren't sure whether they should arrest that girl again or not. Especially a girl who had a voice ('**Voice**', actually, but they didn't know) like that.

Susan, with long, brisk, angry steps marched after her poker up to Mordred. In all your years of life, you never want to see a look like that on Death's Granddaughter's face. It was so cold, so wet with the tears she denied she was shedding, so dark and so very empty... like a preying mantis.

"Damn you," she said softly, and pulled the poker out of the lord's chest, letting the blood rush and fall, ignoring how his face contorted with pain. No, she didn't ignore it—she _relished _it.

WAIT, Death asked anyone who was listening, DID THE CLOCK STRIKE SEVEN O'CLOCK SOMEWHERE IN THERE? OUR POWERS SHOULD BE BACK.

"Let's find out," Susan growled, and snapped her fingers.

Time slowed, then stopped. With considerable effort, she stopped Lobsang and Death as well. She didn't want anyone but her to have time. Well, _almost _no one but her.

Susan swerved and walked towards the body on the ground that she denied was dead. For once, she was actually right. Touching his wrist gently, she brought time back to his flesh. Just to him.

"Teatime?" she asked quietly, surprised by how soft her voice was.

He grinned, raising his knife up to her neck. It was cold against her. Susan liked the cold.

"We do have _rules, _Susan. I've been good enough to follow them—"

"Jonathon, you're going to be alright. I'll find a wizard, then unfreeze time and—"

"It's much nicer here," he said softly, lowering his blade.

"What do you mean?" she asked, totally bemused by the randomness of his words.

"When Marly died I was the one standing over her. I like this better. It makes me feel... _special._"

YOU. ARE. NOT. DYING.

His smile widened slightly.

"Oh, _the __**Voice**__._"

"Teatime..." she growled.

His smile twitched, then he reached up and touched the edge of her face. He seemed fascinated as he watched her white hair with a mind of its own slide around his fingers.

"You're very beautiful."

She closed her eyes.

"Don't you dare leave me, Jonathon."

"Don't you remember, Susan? I want to be with you every day of every year for the rest of eternity. I'll find a way back—you look for me."

"Don't you dare leave me."

"Susan, Susan, Susan..." he whispered softly, shaking his head, "try believing for a change."

He grinned, then closed his eyes.

Susan smiled nervously.

"Teatime, open your eyes please."

He was so still.

"Jonathon, say something."

He was so quiet.

"Jonathon, move. Please, please, just _move_."

Though her voice was commanding and unshaking, her eyes weren't obeying her. Neither were the tears snaking down her cheeks.

"Teatime?"

He was so cold.

"_Tea_time."

He was so... so dead.

It was like a plaster face cracked and broke as her pale, solemn expression wrinkled and contorted. Her head fell to his chest, and no words formed in her mind. There was only a gaping, empty hole. A black-hole, sucking everything up and pulling it in, taking and taking every happy thought, every ounce of defiance... sucking her up and eating her away. A black, ugly, empty hole.

"By god, you've broken me. You said you'd make me whole but you broke me. I was _happy _before. I was okay and happy. You've broken me!"

But she wasn't angry at him. No matter how hard she tried to be, she couldn't be angry at him.

_No, _she thought coldly. _No, I don't love him._

No.

Susan stood and dusted off her skirt, dried off her eyes and tried to compose herself. The tears came again, and she repeated the process when her face stopped being a river. She went back to her previous position by Mordred's throne and brought Death and Lobsang to the frozen time.

SUSAN? Death asked, ARE YOU ALRIGHT?

"Of course I am," she said strongly. "Why wouldn't I be?"


	13. Whole

**Author's Notes:**** I can't believe ****_Literally _is actually over. But it's true; this is it, the last and longest chapter in my fanfiction. That doesn't mean the adventure will end, though—I plan on writing a sequel, and have already started on the first chapter, so it will be up soon. **

**Originally, I wasn't going to post this chapter until I had five reviews on my last one, but the three I got (duchess-susan—I would PM you if you weren't anonymous, so I'll just say it here: thank you, so much, for your wonderful, thoughtful reviews. They really brighten my world) were so nice I just had to. So if I don't get a bunch of reviews on _this_ chapter I'm going to _cry_, and it'll take me longer to write the sequel because I'll be disheartened. So _THERE_.**

**Thank you, all of you, for sticking with my story, reviewing, and reading. I appreciate it beyond words, and it means the world to me.**

**Death gets grouchy, Domain's get colorful, and Susan takes matter into her own hands—ENJOY!**

Chapter Thirteen

A Gaping Whole

The weekend was over, and Susan went back to school (to teach, that is). As the children poured in, they all complained at how quicklyFriday evening, Saturday and Sunday had passed. Their teacher found this odd, as she had never had a longer two and a half days in her life. Had it really only been _one weekend?_

Death visited, school days passed, Persephone kept trying to get an interview and Lobsang wrote letters to her. Susan was grateful for that—he was so wonderful to converse with, as they both were created from two separate worlds and he understood that about her like no one else could. She was glad to have such a _good friend_.

Twoflower had come and thanked her for a bit of an adventure before he'd returned home, with a picture of Death's Granddaughter to show for it. A _picture—_it was a very odd thing, and the device that created these 'pictures' was even odder. Susan hadn't thought that Teatime would have been thoroughly fascinated by it, then cried herself to sleep thinking about him. She really hadn't.

Things were (save conversing with the Lord of Time, a journalist hot on her trail, and her grandfather's Thursday visits), all in all, terribly normal.

Susan threw herself into her work—planning lessons, taking her students all throughout time, and grading schoolwork with a vigor unknown to teacher-dom. And she dreaded summer. She dreaded it with a passion that could burn your soul. She dreaded the nothingness, the emptiness, the lack of work to distract herself from the black-hole where her heart should be.

But summer was fast approaching—now only three days away until the end of school. Her students were bouncing in their seats (not that they didn't thoroughly love Susan's version of 'school'—no, it was just what was expected of them by their friends from other schools as well as their parents; children looked forwards to the end of school, and that was the end of it), as Susan grew more and more tense. She couldn't take this.

The class ended and her children poured out, skipping merrily. She watched them go, slightly envious of their joy.

Her hair began to grow nervous, making itself a mess. Susan sighed in frustration, walking over to the in-school bathroom. She glanced at the mirror as she attempted to coax her hair into some semblance of decency.

And then she saw it.

Susan tried to ignore it, to glance away, but she couldn't keep her eyes from wandering there, her head from leaning forwards, or her fingers from gliding over the tiny, evenly spaced, white, spidery scars of Jonathon Teatime's writing laced on her neck.

_ teh-ah-tim-eh_

She closed her eyes tight, not letting the tears that threatened to flow fall. No, she was better than this. But she still couldn't stop the memories.

_"I did say teh-ah-tim-eh. Please don't try to break my concentration by annoying me."_

_ "Nobility. I'd bow—but I'm afraid you'd do something... _dreadful..._"_

_ "We do have _rules, _Susan. I've been good enough not to break them. Why don't you?"_

_ "__You aren't like a fairytale princess, Susan. You are Susan Sto-Helit, you are brave, and strong, and smart, and silly, and stubborn, and proud, and cynical, and a pain in the neck. That makes you wonderful."_

_ "Susan Sto-Helit... the moment I saw you I knew you'd be special... I don't normally underestimate things."_

_ "You always did deny what you couldn't control. Maybe you should try believing in something for a change."_

_ "Don't you remember Susan? I want to be with you every day of every year for the rest of eternity. I'll find a way back—you look for me."_

Her eyes snapped open.

"No more do-nothing-let-things-happen-Susan," she said, her voice like iron.

Twenty minutes later, she was in Death's Domain—taking matters into her own hands.

*

Death found color very hard to imitate, and because of this his whole land—house, grass, flowers... _everything_—was entirely black and white. Or at least it had been.

You see, one woman named Persephone Pearle could be very persuasive when she wanted to be, and had convinced Death to let her interview him. He had invited her to his domain, and she had been thoroughly appalled at the lack of color. Therefore, she had come again and again, each time bringing something (as she said) "bright and cheery". She brought flower patterned curtains with yellow, red, green and blue. She brought pots of roses, tulips and sunflowers. She brought tablecloths, patterned plates—heck, she even brought bowls of fruit. It looked so odd to see all that black and white, now and then bursting with a bit of color.

Death rather liked it, though. It reminded him of those masquerades he liked to visit now and then, with all those bright costumes. So he didn't mind the journalist adding to his domain with her cheery colors. And eventually, he learned that her company was rather pleasant, even if she _did _ask a lot of questions. She was most definitely the nicest, most honorable, most thoughtful journalist he'd ever heard of. Who would've thought?

So when a knock came on his door, Death assumed it was Persephone bearing her bright gifts. He came through his large house, crossing the floor in a similar manner to Mr. Teatime, as the floor between door and entry wasn't quite as large as it seemed. Death had never really mastered scale, shape, or physical attributes of any sort.

He swung the door open and was surprised to see Susan. Susan, his dear, dear Granddaughter who had been acting oh so strangely ever since the incident of the unseen Unseen University.

HELLO, SUSAN! ARE YOU FEELING WELL?

Of course she pretended nothing was wrong. She was strong, and spunky, and smart. Her normal, grouchy self. But he knew she'd spent nights up late. He knew that her every movement was somehow... shallow, empty. That saddened him, especially since whenever he asked her about it she would glare and say:

"I don't know _what _you're talking about, Granddad."

He sighed at her response. DO COME IN, SUSAN.

She glanced around curiously.

"What's with the... _color?_" she asked in confusion.

WELL, PERSEPHONE HAD BEEN VISITING AND—

"The _journalist?!_"

SHE REALLY IS VERY PLEASANT.

"I'm not denying that. But who _willingly _knocks on Death's door? Isn't that just _asking _for trouble?" Besides relatives, of course. "How does she even _get _here?"

WELL, I'VE LOANED HER BINKY'S FOAL.

"Binky had a child and you didn't tell me?!"

Death shifted uncomfortably.

I WAS GOING TO GET AROUND TO IT... ANYHOW, SINCE SHE IS STILL TOO YOUNG TO BE RIDDEN SHE ONLY LEADS PERSEPHONE HERE.

"Ah," Susan said, a little skeptically.

WHY ARE YOU VISITING, GRANDDAUGHTER?

He brightened (if a skeleton _could_).

HAVE YOU JUST COME TO VISIT? FOR THE SAKE OF JUST VISITING? TO SIMPLY SEE ONE ANOTHER AND HAVE FAMILY DISCUS—

"Um..." Susan started, actually feeling a little guilty.

OH. YOU DIDN'T, DID YOU? he asked sadly.

"No," she answered plainly. Death dimmed (which a skeleton most_ definitely _can). Susan pursed her lips. "But... um... look, Granddad, when I'm done with what I need to do, I'll be glad to come by and join you and Persephone for some..." she started searching through her repertoire for something you did with friends/family; "um, some... some..." oh, that's it—she was written in Britain! "..._tea?_" she tried, her face contorting slightly as she waited for a reply.

AND I COULD HAVE ALBERT FRY SOME PLUM PUDDING!

Susan, if it was possible, paled.

NO! she called, pure fear showing on her face. "Um, I mean, how about the journalist and I take care of the substance? You can make the tea."

WONDERFUL! Death said happily, practically beaming (well, it's up to you to decide whether or not a skeleton can do _that_). BUT SUSAN, WHY ARE YOU HERE?

She took a deep breath.

"I'm here to locate an anthropomorphic personification, and then argue the structure of the universe with her."

Death blinked, his little eyelights bleeping on and off.

WHAT DO YOU NEED ME FOR?

"Nothing, really. I just need to get to the library and look up a certain biography."

OH... WELL, I GUESS I'LL JUST... WANDER MY HOURGLASSES, THEN?

Susan noticed the sad shuffle to his posture.

"We'll have that tea soon, alright, Granddad?"

He nodded slowly, still looking glum.

I WILL LOOK FORWARDS TO IT WITH GREAT ANTICIPATION.

The first genuine even _half_-smile she'd had in a long time graced her lips.

"So will I."

Death wandered off, and Susan, with a determined air, marched up to the library.

*

He'd been here before, but he had sworn to never be here again. He swore he would never come to this dark, empty place. He'd promised himself he would never, ever allow himself to come back.

Teatime hadn't told Susan about this land of darkness so she wouldn't worry. But that wasn't exactly the right word. You see, it _wasn't _dark. It was nothing, emptiness. No light, and no darkness at the same time. It was so empty and horrible.

If there was one thing Jonathon Teatime _was _afraid of, it was boredom. And that was in abundance here. Last time he had died, he had faded into this existence, the black nothingness taking his sight and morphing around him.

Of one thing he was most definitely sure: this was his hell. His own, personal little hell that he could rot in. But he wouldn't rot here.

He had to get out. He had to get out of this nothingness—he'd done it once, he could do it again. It'd been so hard, though. He'd had to justify it in his mind, he'd had to think and think, and believe and believe, but eventually he had breached the borders and returned to the light, or the darkness... he'd returned to _something, _though, no longer in the emptiness.

But he'd spent a lot of time thinking before then. A lot of time thinking about his life, and how nothing had come out of it. He had been near perfect in his work, he had been brilliant, but he had never made the Wall, and as he looked back on it, he saw his many days were as empty as the rest of the Disc. Even as empty as the nothingness that surrounded him.

That had touched him, deep down, and twisted his heart. It had started him in thinking things he'd never thought before. Started him in contemplating things he never would have contemplated before.

Yet before he had escaped, while he had thought about his life, he had searched. He had wandered the nothingness blindly, searching for Marly, his sister, the joy in his day and the peace in his night. But he had found no one—most definitely not Marly.

It had felt like years, eternities, forevers that he had spent here. But he had escaped, and now he had to even more. He'd promised Susan he'd come back, so he must find a way there. He _would_.

He could do anything.

_*_

Searching for Ruth's biography wasn't _particularly _hard. Not so many gods/anthropomorphic personifications names began with 'R's, surprisingly. Even better, Ruth's biography wasn't very long at all (relatively speaking), as she was a fairly new being, only coming into existence when they'd first met.

Susan flipped through the pages until she reached the very end.

"Strange..." she said thoughtfully, "I wouldn't have expected to find her _there_."

So Susan slapped the covers together, placed the book in its place, told her grandfather she was borrowing Binky, and rode out into the sky.

*

Teatime was thinking hard, but he could tell something was different. His mind was restrained with something that felt like a mental chain. Every time he tried to focus on how to get out, his thoughts wrenched backwards and he started thinking about flowers. It was getting rather frustrating, as, though he had nothing against flowers, he very much didn't like to have his mind controlled. He was incredibly proud of his brilliance, and having that limited or under the control of outside forces in any way agitated him.

The assassin kept trying to focus, he worked so hard at it, but the chains kept wrenching him back. The ropes kept pulling his thoughts away. It wasn't _fair_.

Then he felt it. He knew what nothingness felt like—oh, he knew that well. But the prickly feeling on the back of his neck was _not _nothingness. No, that feeling was the feeling you got when someone was walking up behind you.

"Who are you?" he asked softly.

"Bon—" a sweet, female voice started.

The moment the 'B' sound left her lips, he recognized her voice. He knew what she was going to say. He knew who she was and was holding her so tightly against him before she had time to finish the words.

_Bonny Johnny_, she'd always called him. She had teased him so much for his thick, bright curls and dancing talents. She'd thought he was _pretty_, and called him 'bonny' because of that.

"Marly," he whispered.

He had seen her as he whirled around in the split second before he'd wrapped her in his arms. She was so much larger than she had been the last time he'd seen her. Her thick, straight, blond hair was passed her shoulder blades. Her dark blue eyes were vibrant and sweet. She looked just his age, and she was so beautiful. His dear, sweet, gentle, witty Marly, precisely three seconds younger than he.

"Marly, Marly, Marly..."

She hugged him back, crying into his shoulder.

"You're holding me so tightly," she whispered, "I can barely breathe."

"I'm afraid if I don't I'll lose you again."  
"You will, though, Johnny. I can't stay for very long."

He held her tighter, and she let out a sound somewhere between a giggle and a shriek.

"Johnny, you're starting to hurt!"

"No. Don't you dare leave me _again_."

"Cherub..."

He sighed and released her, taking one of her hands. It was larger than when they were little (though that wasn't saying much, as Marly had always been very, very small, even compared to him), yet her hand was exactly the same _scale _against his own as it had been so many years ago. They had been children only eight years old, wandering the streets of Ankh Morpork hand in hand.

"Why couldn't I find you? Where were you? I tried so hard—"

"They thought you didn't deserve the good place."

"I don't... _understand._"

"There's a good place, and a bad place. They thought you didn't deserve the good place." She touched his cheek. "They don't understand you like I do, Johnny. I told you no one else would."

"You did."

"Now they're arguing. Some people think you've gotten better, some people think you could never make up for the things you've done, some people think you're exactly the same, and some couldn't care less. I've fought so hard to get to you, Johnny. The only way I could convince them to let me here you was by saying any place where I couldn't see you was a hell to me. This is going to be the last time we see each other until you die again."

"Again?"

"I don't doubt you, Johnny. You're going to get out of here, and then you are going to work to get to the good place. I'd come with you, but if I leave here... if I leave here I'd never be able to come back, and then when I died we'd be separated forever. No, you go down, and I'll wait for you here." She hesitated, "I've met our mother."

"What is she like?" he asked quietly.

"She... she loves us so much. She's so kind. But there is something you want to tell me. And I want to hear it all! Tell me everything—tell me who you are and what has happened since I died."

He grinned.

"I fell in love, Mini Marly."

She grinned back, her eyes widening.

"Tell me all about her! She'd better be amazing and deserve you, or I'll go down and pull her hair out from jealousy."

"She is amazing, Marly. She's so smart, and silly, and bold, and brave, and proud, and practical..." he hesitated. "Perhaps it is a good thing you died and I'm visiting now, because if you told me you were in love I'd probably catch and kill him."

"I don't doubt it. You always were very jealous. But go on, I want to hear it all! Tell me—tell me everything about her!"

He smiled. She was so perfect, so beautiful—his sister, his dear sweet sister. _His_, and no one else's. His other half and light. His Marly.

_My Marly._

But then he noticed. She was fading.

"Marly, what's going on?" he said, the worry showing in his usually cheerful voice.

"Don't stop talking, Johnny—please, don't stop. I want to hear your voice. I want to hear everything."

"You're going, aren't you?"

She was growing fainter.

"Yes, but please... please, go on..."

"Marly, don't leave me again," he said darkly.

She shook her head and hugged him, burying her nose in his shoulder.

"I love you so much," she said softly.

He held her so tight as she faded.

"I love you, too, Marly."

Then she was gone.

But she was somewhere, and he would find her. He would see his Marly again—there was no doubt of that now. He would find her, and they would be together again, and she could meet Susan. How wonderful would that be! The two people he loved—Susan and Marly, with him forever when they died.

Silly chains; he'd break them. How could _anything _stand in his way now that he had his two loves so close to his grasp?

*

Ruth was sitting on the rolling, grassy hills outside Ankh-Morpork, holding her little parasol over her shoulder to block the terrible heat the sun cast down.

Susan didn't much care for heat. It made her lethargic—the cold _invigorated _her. But she wasn't thinking about that; she was staring at the anthropomorphic personification before her who was snapping her fingers furiously.

"Are your powers not working properly?" Susan asked a she approached, sitting beside the **Rules**.

_What kind of powers does she _have_, anyway?_

"No, they are working perfectly," she said coolly, snapping her fingers again.

"Then why are you snapping so much?" the schoolteacher asked, her brow furrowing.

"I'm _using _my powers."

"I don't understand."

"It's all those _stupid _Auditor's faults!" she screeched, obviously in a terrible mood. She really needed to vent. "They keep breaking and breaking the **Rules**, and trying to make it look like they aren't, and stirring up thoughts of rebellion in everyone's heads! Do you _know _how many **Rule **breakages there have been in the passed week? The _past WEEK?_"

"Um, no..." Susan said, wondering if she even _wanted _to, then realizing she really didn't have a _choice_.

"FIFTY-SIX! Did you hear that? _FIFTY-SIX! _Fifty-six **Rules **have been broken in the passed _week_. Not year, not month, not even week-and-a-half—no, a _WEEK! FIFTY-SIX BREAKAGES!_"

Ruth took a deep breath, stretched out her jaw, and started twiddling her parasol idly. When she spoke, it was calm and cool.

"I'm fixing them now. My powers include fixing **Rule **breakages with the snap of a finger."

"Ah."

There was a short silence. Ruth was still snapping her fingers, which were all red and raw from the constant stress.

"Do you have time to talk?" Susan asked.

"No, I do not. I am exceedingly busy with my work," the **Rules **answered stiffly.

_Well, I tried to be polite._

"I need to speak to you about a certain instance with the Auditors."

"I'm afraid that will have to wait until I'm _done._"

"And how long will that take?"

Ruth thought a few seconds.

"Two months, three days, four hours, two minutes, thirty-six seconds."

NO, Susan said. Ruth jumped, but wasn't particularly frightened. NO, RUTH. WE HAVE TO TALK.

The **Rules **took in a deep breath.

"You may be Death's granddaughter, Miss Sto-Helit, but you have no right to boss me around. If you don't mind, _I'm busy_."

I DO MIND.

"If we talk, will you _leave?_"

The slightest half smile crossed the schoolteacher's lips.

*

_The hour glass... where is his hourglass?_

She journeyed the hall of the dead—the place where no longer flowing hourglasses were kept. The problem was that there were so darn many. It was taking her forever for her to reach the 'T' section, especially since it was at the end of the alphabet.

"If only you were here, Teatime," she said thoughtfully, "we could cross this hall in two steps."

Then again, if he were here she wouldn't _need _to cross the hall in the first place. The whole Disc was just one, big mess. There really was no denying _that, _but somehow it was a mess worth fighting for.

Right now, though, Susan wasn't fighting for the Discworld like she usually was. No, she was fighting for herself and her own happiness (maybe a bit for Teatime's, too. Maybe) as she made her way down the long hall. It took what felt like hours to reach the one, lone hourglass, labeled with clean, neat letters:

_Jonathon Teatime_

She took the hourglass and held it to herself, a small smile playing at her lips. Everything was going to be okay.

Finding a table in the long, winding halls was harder than one might expect, and if she hadn't used to live here she never would have found one. But Susan understood (for the most part) how Death thought, and how he created his home. When she reached a long table covered with a brightly colored tablecloth against the black and white she raised a brow, but otherwise ignored it. For now, she really only had one thing on her mind.

She set the hourglass on the table, staring at in intently.

"Alright," she said softly, "alright, Teatime. I've talked with her."

She flipped the glass, and, as expected, the sand didn't budge. A terrible feeling of dizziness filled her as she held it, and Susan set it on the table as quickly as possible to keep her head from splitting like a watermelon.

"Now I wait."

*

He was getting closer—so much closer. He could actually stay focused on his task for (what felt like, at least. Time didn't really _work _here) ten seconds before flowers filled his head. In a while, he would be able to get out. A while, yes, but he could do it. He knew it—he had to.

Again, he felt a presence behind him, and whirled around hopefully. He was terribly disappointed to see Death, of all people, before him.

"Oh. It's _you_," he said dismally.

WHO WERE YOU EXPECTING?

"I was hoping..." he shook his head. "It doesn't matter. Why are you here?"

Death crossed his arms, glaring at Teatime.

FOR REASONS I WILL GET INTO SHORTLY.

The assassin had spent many nights up late, thinking of ways to kill Death. He'd hated him, ever since he was a little boy and had watched the anthropomorphic personification take away his little sister's soul. But he was Susan's grandfather, so they had to keep some semblance of peace it seemed. Such a shame.

They glared at one another for a few seconds.

IT APPEARS, he said, THAT SUSAN HAD FLIPPED YOUR HOURGLASS.

"She really has? How _sweet_ of her."

I'D TEND TO THINK THE REST OF THE WORLD WOULD DISAGREE, Death mumbled. Then he continued; IT SEEMS THAT SINCE YOUR DEATH WAS INDIRECTLY CAUSED BY THE AUDITORS BREAKING THE **RULES**, AND THAT EVERYTHING THAT OCCURRED BECAUSE OF THEIR **RULE **BREAKAGE SHOULD BE REVERSED, YOU SHOULD BE REVIVED. SUSAN FOUND THAT LOOPHOLE, AND PERSUED IT.

"You mean if I told you that so long ago you would have brought me back to life?!" Teatime called in disbelief, mentally kicking himself for not doing so.

I SINCERELY DOUBT IT.

"Oh," the assassin said, feeling a bit better about his actions.

Death had spent many happy nights thinking how wonderful it was that Mr. Teatime had finally _died_. The assassin had killed so many people, really cluttering up his work schedule, not to mention _taking lives_. Knowing that this bloodthirsty madman no longer cursed the Disc had helped him sleep at night (metaphorically speaking, of course). He'd be more than glad to refuse this new theory and fight it to the bitter end, but Susan was behind it, and, it seemed she cared about this assassin for unknown reasons. It appeared, then, that he and Teatime had to keep some semblance of peace. Such an inconvenience.

I DO NOT SEE WHY SHE HAS DONE THIS. I DON'T UNDERSTAND HER IN SO MANY WAYS. BUT A CONFERENCE WITH CERTAIN POWERFUL PERSONAGES, AS WELL AS THE THOUGHTS OF THE **RULES**, HAS DECIDED THAT YOU SHOULD BE RETURNED THE PHYSICAL STATE YOU WERE IN BEFORE SUSAN IMPALED YOU WITH A POKER.

The image of Teatime with a poker straight through him would have made Death smirk, if he had lips.

The assassin nodded.

"Will you take me back, then?"

I SUPPOSE I SHALL... Death took a step closer, looking terribly intimidating. BUT IF I START SEEING A MASS OF BODIES FOLLOWING YOUR TRAIL, YOU WILL WISH YOU NEVER LEFT HERE. AND IF I FIND SUSAN HAS BEEN HURT IN ANY WAY, YOU WILL WISH YOU'D NEVER BEEN BORN AT ALL.

Teatime, strangely enough, could relate to the last thing Death said, and nodded.

"You don't have to worry about that, sir. Susan will not be harmed if I have anything to do with it—least of all by me," he said as seriously as he could in his high, off voice.

I WILL HOLD YOU TO THAT, the skeleton answered darkly.

*

_Maybe you should try believing in something for a change_, he'd said. Well she was. She was believing in him. He would come back. He would be here. She would see him again. He would be here.

But she had been waiting here, staring at the sand in his hourglass, _willing _it to move, for over an hour. She'd been waiting so long, but she wouldn't give up. She wouldn't leave, she wouldn't move until she saw him again. She _wouldn't_.

The sand started to fall.

"Hi," said a soft voice in her ear.

Susan clutched the table until her knuckles turned white, her eyes clamping shut. She was too afraid to look and see no one there.

"Jonathon?" she whispered.

"Hi," he repeated.

She smiled slowly, turning around and opening her eyes. Slowly, she reached up a hand and touched his cheek.

"I have this terrible urge to hit you," she said softly, her sight growing blurry.

"I have this terrible urge to kiss you. But from my memory, you're supposed to—"

He never quite had a chance to finish the sentence before she leaned up and kissed him. He was here—Jonathon Teatime.

The black hole in her heart filled to the brim with the most wonderful feeling—a feeling of love—, and she had never felt so whole.

*

The two days left of teaching dragged out, as now Susan couldn't wait for them to end. She was a duchess after all, and had a pretty sum tucked away. It turned out to be the same for Teatime, as he had hardly spent any of the money he'd earned from his... er, _career_ on anything. She couldn't even remember who had suggested it, but sometime, one of them had said something along the lines of—

"Let's go somewhere cold! Let's travel, just you and I, somewhere spectacular until school starts again."

—and both of them had loved the idea. So Susan had packed, and Teatime had found some more of his assassin's attire (even though he really wasn't quite working for them anymore... he still considered himself an assassin, and was terribly proud of the clothing), and they were ready to go the moment school let out.

Susan, Persephone, and Death had all shared some tea as she had promised, but most of the time when she wasn't teaching, she and Teatime were talking. It was amazing how much he had to say, how brilliant he was. They'd talked nights away by arguing, laughing, learning and debating with one another.

At last, they bought a cart to carry their supplies and a horse to draw it and started off together across the rolling hills of Ankh-Morpork. Teatime was as hyper as after they had first kissed, beaming terribly and seeming so childish. Susan loved that about him—how childlike he was, but she'd never let him know that.

"Me oh my," he said softly, "the sun is setting."

"How could that be? We just set off..."

"It feels like so little time, doesn't it? But look at how far we've come. I can barely see the Unseen University anymore."

Susan glanced behind her. He was most definitely right. She shrugged.

"I guess you're right."

He took her hand, grinning broadly.

"This is so much fun!"

"Jonathon, you are so... so..."

"Happy?"

"That wasn't quite the word I was looking for."

"Glowing?"

"Um, not that either. How about—"

"Lovesick?"

"That works," she said with a nod, "but I was thinking of juvenile."

"Hmm..." he said thoughtfully.

Teatime noticed a shadow off to the side.

"Oh, Susan, I think someone is trying to rob us," he said quietly.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm most definitely sure. Their actually leaving our cart right now."

"Oh."

"Permission?"

"Just get him in the leg, if you can," she sighed.

Teatime leaned forwards and kissed her cheek, simultaneously throwing his knife. A small cry of pain came out of seemingly no where.

"I do love you, Susan," he said softly.

She rolled her eyes.

"My traveling companion is lovesick, juvenile, and just threw a knife _while he was kissing me_. What was I _thinking?_"

He nuzzled her neck.

"I'm glad you were thinking it, whatever it was."

She sighed, and then said (albeit reluctantly):

"Me too."

Teatime grinned.

"Good," he said softly.

*

THREE YEARS EARLIER

The blade slid away from her, air slicing as the sword passed through it. Susan whirled around, surprised to see a boyishly handsome young man, only in his early twenties. Or at least he _would _have been handsome, if it weren't for those mismatched eyes. One black and dark, the other off white, _almost _blueish, with a pinprick of a pupil. His every step was like a dance, he moved with such grace.

"Hello," he said cheerfully, smiling up at her. He sent chills down her spine with that frightening gaze of his as he stepped towards her. Her stomach was fluttering with nerves, and she touched the wall for support. Why was he so _terrifying?_

Susan could tell right away that he was an assassin. She was also certain that she would have to defeat him—and even more certain that that would be terribly hard to do. But she couldn't help but be terribly curious about him, as well. There was some sort of an... _aura _about him that chilled her, and intrigued her like nothing else ever had. It also frightened her, and it took a lot to frighten Susan. It must be the way his eyes bore into her so intensely that unnerved her so... but no, she would not let her fear show. She would shove it a side.

What was she talking about—she wasn't afraid _at all_. She was _furious. _How _dare _he take her Grandfather's sword?! Susan raised her chin in defiance and anger.

This was a man that would be hard to deal with, but she would. She would take care of him, and never had to worry about this assassin again in her _life—_literally.

Yeah, right.

**Author's Notes—CONTINUED!:**** Did you ****_really _think I'd leave a story with a sad ending? Nope, I'm a stickler for happy ones, and since Teatime has made it back from the dead once it'd just be lame if he couldn't again (for those of you who have read _Marly Had a Brother, _I was trying to show how Teatime became Teatime, and it _had _to be sad. Not to mention this chapter bring a bit of happiness to the end of that tale). This was the best happily-ever-after I could muster, and I hope you enjoyed it. Please review, and keep an eye out for my sequel—it's coming up!**


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